Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 03 - The Recorder's Way (13 page)

“I’m no good for her.” Max felt
that should do it. He’d said it all. Andrew would understand the matter now.

“Have you
asked Helen to marry you?”

“Of course not!” Max was shocked. “That’s why I’m talking to you. To explain I shouldn’t.”

“Because you’re no good for her?”

“Exactly.” Max struggled out of the
beanbag, resulting in actually getting down on his hands and knees in order to stand up. “So that’s settled.” Andrew didn’t say anything. Max cocked his head. Obviously, Andrew had missed something.

He
len’s father stood up and opened the door. “I suppose we both need to see what Helen has to say about all this.”

Max grabbed the door to close it
, pushing Andrew back into the room. “Don’t say a word. I just wanted you to understand my position.”

Andrew
stood his ground. “Oh, I understand.” He actually laughed. “You don’t have a chance, Max. Give it up.” With that Andrew opened the door and left the basement.

Max thought his brain m
ight have dried up, suffered a lingering injury from when he was in Iraq. He couldn’t make heads nor tails out of what had just happened. He dusted off his shoulders as if from falling bomb debris in the war zone. He’d explained, Andrew understood, but what? Andrew wanted Helen to decide her own fate? Max thought Andrew was being imprudent. Very cautiously, Max climbed the basement stairs to the kitchen where he could hear Helen and her mother laughing with George.

“…But while their meat was yet in their mouths, the wrath of God came upon them, and slew the fattest of them, and smote down the chosen… For all this they sinned still, and believed not for his wondrous ways.” Psalm 78: 30-34

Second Thur
sday in May, 2008

Ann Arbor City Club

“Mary Livingston is in the library.” The City Club’s sharp-eyed receptionist realized Max and Helen had no idea where the library was. “I’ll be glad to show you.” She directed them through a set of glass doors into a long room crowded with bridge players huddled in silence around a dozen or more tables. Max winked at one of the elderly ladies. She disgustedly waved him away.

The receptionist pointed to a flight of stairs situated between the next group of parlors. She whispered. “To your left at the top of the landing.”

“Big place,” Max said, but was shushed by more than one bridge player.

The library was stuffed into the smallest room in the building. The place would have served as a walk-in closet. Besides the bookshelves, there was room for a black leather chair and a decent lamp and table. The only other furnishing was a miniature gate-leg table with an occupied chair. Max made himself comfortable in the
leather reading chair.

“Mrs. Livingston?” He
len asked

For a lady past her prime, Mrs. Livingston was stylishly dressed. “Are you picking up a book for a member?”

Max held out The Firm’s business card. “We would appreciate any information about a doctor our agency is investigating for the police.”

“I don’t think I can help you about any of our members.”

“I understand.” Max put his card back in his wallet and started to rise. “We did hear you might be able to help …”

“Who is it? Is she in any trouble?”

“We don’t know, yet,” Helen said. “Dr. Dorothy Whidbey was identified as a friend of yours.”

Mrs. Livingston motioned for
them to follow her. “Give me your card. We need more privacy.” Max and Helen followed her to a slightly bigger room decorated with white wicker furniture, pink pillows and a full-length mirror. “This is the bride’s room.” Mrs. Livingston held the door open for them “No one will walk in on us here.”

Max held onto the arms of the delicate looking wicker chair and eased down gingerly into the pillows. He
len half expected the chair to disintegrate under his weight. A swift thought of a scene from the old black and white movie,
The Bishop’s Wife
, came to mind. In the movie, several servants were needed to pry off a chair glued to the preacher. Max pulled the folding card table toward himself and spread out Charley Klondike’s file.

‘Please God,’
Helen prayed, ‘Pry every bit of truthful information from this lead.’ She wondered if God’s will included such trifles when the world needed major overhauling.

Mrs. Livingston closed the door and sat down opposite
Max. “Mr. Hunt?”

“Yes.” Max remembered to smile. “I hope you can help
my partner, Helen Costello, and me.”

Mrs. Livingston
acknowledged Helen’s presence and turned over The Firm’s business card. “He that knows least commonly presumes most.” She looked up, as if startled. “I should have gone to the police before. One seldom wishes to interfere in a couple’s problems. Of course, wife-abuse wasn’t always a crime against the state.”

Helen
nodded, keeping her astonishment to herself.

“Were you a witness to her husband’s violence?”
Max asked.

“Of course not!” Mrs. Livingston straightened her purple vest. She checked the heart-shaped watch pinned to its collar. “We share a gardener …
.
” Max cocked his head to indicate he didn’t understand. “…the Whidbeys and I. He’s a sturdy fellow. Old but, you know,” Mrs. Livingston included Helen with a look, “able.”

Max slipped his notebook out of his jacket pocket. “The gardener’s name?”

“Willets. John, I believe. We call him Willets.”

“Did Willets witness the abuse?”
Helen asked.

Mrs. Livingston squirmed. “It’s so distasteful to discuss.”

“We could go down to the police station.” Max’s tone was hard-edged. “I’m sure a policewoman would be happy to take down your statement.” He slowly began to rise.

Helen hoped Mrs. Livingston would stop
him. Waving twice for Max to remain seated, Mrs. Livingston allowed the gruesome facts to tumble out, as if she were spitting bad tasting soup onto the rug. “He’s untied her more than once. Mr. Whidbey just leaves her stranded in the bed for hours. Willets helped her change the sheets after more than one urinary accident.”

Max
and Helen got the picture quickly enough. “Bondage?” Max prompted.

Mrs. Livingston secured a flowered handkerchief from her purse and dried her sweaty palms. “I suspect Willets did more than untie Doctor Whidbey, at times.”

“Is there anything else?” Helen had heard all she wanted to know about the personal life of Dr. Dorothy Whidbey.

Shaking her head, no, Mrs. Livingston added. “Her wrists are usually bruised. I asked about them. She told me she used too many blood thinners.”

“She never mentioned a patient of hers?” Max leaned forward. “Charles Klondike?”

“Oh yes she did! My late husband was an alcoholic too. Charley gave her quite a run for her money, before he died. Her brother, you know. Lived out of state for years. But when his wife left him in
Alaska, he tried to move in with Dorothy. Couldn’t hold a job. He was a salesman. Heavy equipment, you know, for factories. Wrote bad checks to cover the cost of the alcohol.”

Max made a note after he asked, “Did you know Mr. Klondike personally?”

“I met him after my husband talked him into attending an open AA meeting.” Mrs. Livingston pursed her lips on the sour truth. “I think Charley only went once. Decided it was a God thing he didn’t need. Honestly,” Mrs. Livingston turned from Max to address Helen, as if a woman might empathize. “I could never understand why my husband attended the group. If he could stop with their help, he should have been able to stop drinking on his own.” Mrs. Livingston inhaled.

Max held up his hand to ask a question, but she ignored him.

“His cat was a drunk too. What was his name? You wouldn’t remember. I know, Stalin. See Charley used the cat to move in once with the Whidbeys after they had set him up in an apartment in Ashley Terrace. Seems the cat drank whatever Charley spilled, which must have been precious little. But the cat, Stalin, went crazy from the alcohol, I guess. He attacked Charley at every opportunity. Tore up everything in the apartment he couldn’t break and had to be tranquilized just to be taken to the vet to be put down. Poor cat. Anyway the cat’s destruction of Charley’s apartment was why Dorothy took her brother in for a month.”

Helen
tried to inject a question, but Mrs. Livingston was too fast for her, too.

“Charley never stopped
.” Mrs. Livingston She rattled on, “Well near the end, he was hospitalized. DTs Dorothy said. She sent him to St. Anthony’s Hospital to cut down on the talk. He died there.”

“She was her brother’s doctor?”
Max shook his head.

“Yes.” Mrs. Livingston dusted off her skirt as if her words left a residue she could see. “The
Whidbeys were very close with their fortunes. Dorothy said her grandchildren were her priority. Never gave to charities. I asked more than once. She gave a pat answer, ‘Families-first.’ I know it’s wrong to judge but animals take care of their families. People are supposed to rise above that type of selfishness to embrace a wider world, don’t you agree?” Mrs. Livingston’s hands swept in their opposing directions as if gathering applause to herself.

Max nodded. “Thank you for your help.
”

“
You’ll be hearing more from us,” Helen offered.

“Oh, I hope not.” Mrs. Livingston said, sincerely shocked.

♦
♦
♦
♦
♦

Second Thursday in May
, 2008

Whidbey Residence in Waterloo

Waterloo’s millponds formed a figure eight with the smaller of the two filled with a several brightly-feathered, migrating waterfowl. Helen nudged Max. “The Whidbey couple has an intriguing view through their sitting room windows.

Captain
Tedler tapped his holster when he stepped out of the police car. “I do not envy the Whidbeys’ vista.”

“Are you being honest with yourself?” Max asked
himself the same question. Should he acknowledge Helen’s reference to coupling or let it pass. Was she thinking of him as more than a partner in the agency? Was he avoiding his feelings for Helen?

Once in the house after they listened to Dr. Whidbey’s tirade for twenty minutes, Captain
Tedler shook his head. “Madame, I don’t care who you know. Your husband can tell your lawyer to meet us at the station. You are under arrest for murdering your brother, Charles Klondike.”

Doctor Whidbey fell forward and screamed. “My ankle. You’ve broken my ankle.”

Captain Tedler sat down on the hall’s bench. He waved for Helen. “Call an ambulance. We need to transport Doctor Whidbey to emergency.”

Max noted that Mr. Whidbey stood in the living room, staring at the view of the duck pond with his back to the fracas.

Doctor Whidbey screamed at him. “Call someone, you idiot.”

Max wanted to flee the scene. But, they needed to get on with the business of wrapping up the loose ends of Sally
Bianco’s final caseload. “Call for back-up, Captain Tedler, Helen and I will run by John Willet’s home.”

Mr. Whidbey finally spoke up. “Does this concern St. Anthony’s Hospital?”

“Yes, sir, it does.” Captain Tedler stood with his feet placed firmly apart as if anticipating an attack.

“We were all fired from St. Anthony’s Hospital.” Doctor Whidbey’s ankle didn’t seem to require much attention from her.

“Reinstated,” Helen contributed, “after three patients died?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the problem.” Captain Tedler opened the door for the ambulance staff.

“That we were re-hired?”

“No, just the three murders.”

Max and Helen was barred from leaving by the crush of ambulance workers at the door.

“You won’t be able to prosecute any of us.” Doctor Whidbey sounded confident. “Handler’s a fixer, and Cornell is dead.”

“I’d start worrying about your own case,” her husb
and said without turning around, about as coldly as one would speak to a telephone solicitor. “You were told your brother was experiencing DT’s at four in the afternoon. You never visited his room until you were sure he was dead.”

♦
♦
♦
♦
♦

Second Friday in May
, 2008

Dr. Handler’s Office

Helen considered telling Dr. Handler’s patients why she needed to see their pediatrician. Four young women with their children were seated around the most luxurious waiting room Helen had ever frequented. Four domed teardrop chandeliers provided light. Max busied himself examining the swarms of colorful exotic fish in narrow tanks, which lined the walls all the way to the ceiling. The chairs were upholstered, the carpeting was a deep maroon pile, and the paintings were original oils. Flowering hedges topped by blooming tulip trees graced each windowed view. Pots of forced daffodils bulbs decorated the magazine tables.

Helen
speculated about what the cold-faced, elegantly dressed mother, eyeing Max, would do with the red-cheeked urchin who sat between her designer boots happily chewing on her bootlaces. Would the sweet mother of twin two-year-olds rush them out of the office as if a fire alarm had gone off? The over-weight mother might take longer to convince her three-year-old to give up the visiting room’s TV cartoons. The mom who was concentrating on a Nora Roberts’ romance might not pay any attention to the fate of her sleeping infant.

Being sued for
defamation of Dr. Handler’s character might actually be enjoyable. Helen checked her watch before heading for the reception desk for the third time. “We’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes. I may not have explained the exact nature of my visit to Dr. Handler.” Helen turned slightly so the reception area could hear and raised her voice to a strident tone. “Dr. Handler’s mismanagement of a spinal meningitis case resulted in the death of a seven-year-old boy. I would like to hear his side of the case.”

The receptionist immediately ushered
them into the inner sanctum. Helen wasn’t able to see if the waiting room emptied out with the news.

“Come this way.”
The nurse encouraged them to enter an office clearly marked, ‘Private.’

During
their long wait, Helen appreciated the ambiance of the doctor’s consultation room. Dark green walls held old-fashioned English foxhunt scenes. The desk was as long as a coffin. The massive dark oak was carved with baby angels flapping wooden wings up the sides of the desk. Rows of matching leather-bound medical volumes attested to the doctor’s qualifications.