Grace Sees Red (20 page)

I took the call in the parlor and realized the boys hadn't been kidding. There were boxes everywhere. Bootsie wandered between them, jumping from level to level as though scaling cardboard mountains. No wonder she hadn't wanted to make the trek to the basement. Our main level had been turned into a kitty playground.

Joe sounded eager, excited. “Where are you?”

“Home, why?”

“I've been going over this autopsy report and I'd like to talk with you about it. I'm in my office right now. Am I calling too late?”

“No, not at all.” Instinctively, I glanced at the clock. Seven thirty. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. This was the day that wouldn't end. “Did you find something that could help Frances?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Is there somewhere we can meet? I don't want to be rude and invite myself over, but—”

“And I don't usually make the excuse that my house is a mess, but Bruce and Scott literally emptied out Amethyst Cellars into our living space today and I don't have a single free chair I could offer you.”

He made a small noise of disappointment.

“Would you mind if we met at Hugo's?” I asked him. “I'm starving.”

“Not many people would be willing to discuss an autopsy report over dinner.” He laughed quietly. “How soon?”

“It takes me about ten minutes to walk there.”

“Ten minutes it is.”

*   *   *

Hugo's was a popular restaurant, but because it wasn't a weekend and the town wasn't yet in high season, I had no trouble snagging a table in the back where Joe and I could converse freely without fear of being overheard.

I seated myself with my back to the wall. Less than two minutes later, the hostess pointed Joe in the direction of my table. He carried a manila folder in one hand and waved to me with the other. No cane tonight either, apparently. And his limp was barely noticeable.

“This place has a nice vibe.” Giving Hugo's a quick once-over, he lowered himself into the chair to my right and placed the folder on the table in front of him. “Have you ordered?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“Do you mind if I hit you with a couple of questions while we wait?”

I liked the way he got straight to business. “Please.”

He opened the folder to the autopsy report, where two preprinted line drawings of the male human form took up most of the first page. One drawing was to document findings on the body when viewed faceup, the other, facedown. Handwritten notes were scribbled around both outlines.

“First of all, the coroner who performed the autopsy did not indicate the presence of any unexplained skin punctures. Reading through her notes, I've been able to determine that she did, indeed, perform a thorough examination.”

“That's great news,” I said. “Insulin is typically injected into the thighs, abdomen, or buttocks, right?”

He nodded but didn't smile.

“So that means Gus didn't die of an insulin overdose?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But if there aren't any puncture wounds—”

“Hang on, look right here.”

Just then, a waitress arrived at our table. Joe shut the folder as she introduced herself. I could barely wait for her to get through her welcoming spiel.

“Can I bring you something to drink while you look at the menus?” she asked.

“I'm ready to order. I'll have a cheeseburger and fries, please,” I said. “And I'm fine with water to drink.” When Joe glanced over, I could tell he sensed my impatience. I shrugged.

He nodded. “Same for me.”

As soon as she was gone again, he reopened the folder and positioned it between us. He pointed to the facedown human outline. “The coroner who performed the autopsy noted the presence of a heparin lock on the back of Gus's left hand.”

“That's what started the whole investigation,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“When Santiago found Gus dead, it was because he'd gone in there to flush Gus's heparin lock.”

Joe sat forward, eyes glinting. “I hadn't heard that detail before.”

“Is it significant?”

“Does Frances have any medical training?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

He sat back, tapping a finger against the page. “If Gus died of insulin poisoning, I'd wager he received the dose through his heparin lock.”

“Meaning Frances is still a suspect.”

“Technically, yes, but if she had no medical training, then she probably wouldn't know she had that option.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “And unless Gus was an incredibly sound sleeper, I highly doubt the man would allow a nonmedical person to inject him with anything.”

When our burger platters arrived, Joe shut the file again and moved it to the side. Our waitress asked typical, polite questions and then, to my relief, took off again promptly.

“Keep in mind”—Joe pinched three fries and used them for emphasis—“we still don't know whether Gus received
any
insulin. This discussion may be moot. But, for the sake of argument, let's say he did.”

“If he did, are you saying that one of the nurses injected him?”

“Again, not necessarily.” Joe lifted his burger with both hands. “Anyone who wears a heparin lock for a while knows how they work.”

I lifted my burger off the plate. “Meaning Gus could have injected himself.”

Mouth full, he nodded vigorously. A few seconds of chewing later, he added, “Let's hope Gus died a natural, peaceful death. But even if he didn't, I think there's enough to cast doubt on Frances being the killer.”

We spent the rest of dinner discussing the case and tossing ideas back and forth. Joe ate at a more leisurely pace than I did and still had half his food left by the time I'd polished off my burger and consumed every fry.

“You weren't kidding about being hungry,” he said as the waitress slipped the empty plate out from under me.

“It's been an incredibly long day,” I said. “I'll be glad to see the end of it.”

The waitress placed the bill on the table between us.

He reached for it. “Then I won't keep you.”

I laid my hand on the little leather folder first. “My treat,” I said. “It's the least I can do for all your help.” When he hesitated, I added, “I insist.”

“Well then, thank you.”

As he withdrew, I noticed a faint tan line on the ring finger of his left hand. Worse, he caught me noticing.

“Maybe we can do this again sometime,” he said, breaking the awkward moment. I was grateful to him for lessening my embarrassment. A corner of his mouth curled up. “Without an autopsy report to analyze.”

I'd enjoyed our time together—both at Indwell today and here at dinner. Though I barely knew him, Joe Bradley already felt like an old friend. “I'd like that.”

*   *   *

Bennett had urged Frances to stay home and take care of herself while the storm of her suspicion raged, but—true to form—she showed up at work the next morning, right on time.

“I feel safer here,” she explained when I asked her. “If the cops come for me again, at least one of you will know about it. If they cart me away when I'm home alone, who knows how long it would be before somebody notices I've gone missing.”

“Speaking of Bennett,” I said. “He's due here any minute. He wants to hear what Tooney has come up with.”

“Have you told the Mister about what your coroner friend said?” she asked.

“Not yet. Have you called Lily Holland to tell her?”

She nodded. “She said it's good information, but we'll need more if we expect to get charges dropped.”

“Let's hope Tooney has what we need.”

She snorted. “I'm not holding out hope. If all this was about you, he'd have had you declared innocent before the cops had left Indwell the first time. But this is for me, so I can't expect him to care.”

“Not true,” I said.

The door to Frances's office opened and Tooney walked in.

“See?” she said. “If he wanted to come into your office, he'd knock first.”

Distraught, Tooney asked, “I was supposed to knock?”

“Come on in,” I said, pointing to the seat next to mine. “I can't wait to hear what you've come up with.”

A second later, Bennett strode in. “How are things today?” he asked. “Were you able to sleep, Frances? Is there anything you need?”

“I'm fine.”

I got up to pull a chair from my office into Frances's.

“I can get it, Gracie,” Bennett said.

When we were all settled around Frances's desk, I held out a hand. “Mr. Tooney, we are all ears.”

His cheeks pinkened. “I hope some of this helps.” He pulled out a notebook from his pocket. “I've been shadowing each of the people Frances named, one at a time. A few of them live pretty close together, so I've been able to develop an efficient route that takes me past their homes when I know they're off work. I had to learn their routines pretty quick, you understand. And I've been able to discreetly ask questions and follow them around enough to make some educated guesses about how they spend their free time.”

Frances tightened her crossed arms and made a face.

“Great,” I said. “Go on.”

“Starting with Gus's family: Harland and his wife have been looking at new cars. Expensive ones.”

Frances made a noise.

“How expensive?” I asked.

“Considering they live in a modest house in an old neighborhood and both drive fifteen-year-old clunkers, I'd say very. He seems to favor a black Mercedes while she's eyeing a green Jaguar.” He shrugged. “I can't say for certain, but they sure act like people who expect to be coming into money soon.”

“That's not surprising,” Frances said. “Gus was rich. I'm sure both sons stand to inherit a big chunk of change.”

Tooney waited for her to finish. “Dan, the younger son, eats out every night at the same restaurant a few miles outside Rosette.” Before I could ask, he anticipated my question. “Vern's Steak House. Popular with locals. He may be considering a move to Florida. I can't decide if the brochures he's left behind at the restaurant indicate that he's planning a move or he's just dreaming.”

This sort of information wasn't much help. I could feel Frances's frustration grow. “What about Indwell's staff? Did you learn anything valuable about them?”

“Tara was off work yesterday. She spent all her time with her fiancé—which she usually does.”

“Knew that,” Frances said.

“Santiago puts in extra hours as often as he can.”

“Knew that, too.”

Tooney frowned. “He lives alone and binge-watches zombie and vampire TV shows.” He cocked an eyebrow and added, “He attends Gamblers Anonymous meetings twice a week after work.”

“So?” Frances fidgeted.

“Debbie is divorced and lives with her mother. Cathy loves her dachshunds more than she loves her husband, I think. She buys a lot—and I do mean a lot—of stuff via mail order.”

“What kind of stuff?” Frances asked.

“No way for me to know,” he said. “Boxes pile up on her front stoop every day. I'm surprised she can fit anything more into her house.”

Frances twisted her mouth to one side and looked away. “I knew I couldn't count on your help.”

“Hang on, Frances,” I said. “Maybe the reason why Tooney hasn't been able to dig up any dirt on these people is because there isn't any dirt to find. It still hasn't been proven that Gus died of insulin poisoning.”

“Doesn't seem to matter to the cops though, does it?”

I drew in a deep breath. “Let's focus on the positive, shall we?” I turned to Bennett and Tooney. “Joe and I were discussing the autopsy report last night. He came up with an interesting observation.”

“Joe?” Tooney asked. “Are you talking about the coroner, Dr. Bradley?”

“Exactly,” I said. “He didn't know Gus had a heparin lock.” I tapped the back of my left hand. “If Gus died of insulin poisoning, the vials could have been injected via that port. It stands to reason that he either did it himself or one of the nurses did it under the guise of a routine flush.”

Tooney's soft face crumpled in on itself as he pondered that. “I don't know if I buy him injecting himself,” he said slowly.

“What, you think Gus would have let me inject him?”
Frances asked in a huff. “That man and I never got within ten feet of each other. We shared a mutual loathing.”

“What's troubling you, Mr. Tooney?” Bennett asked.

“The way I see it, these insulin vials are like rounds of ammunition. If you fire a semi-automatic, spent shell casings are going to fly out with each shot. Most criminals—or people, at least, who know about forensic evidence—will pick up their spent shell casings and remove them from the crime scene so detectives have less evidence to work with.”