Clark, Mary Higgins 03 - The Cradle Will Fall Page 5

He jumped clear of the spattered blood. As he watched, the

  pulse in her throat flickered and stopped. He bent over her carefully.

  She had stopped breathing. He slipped the paperweight back

  into his pocket. He wouldn't need it now. He wouldn't have to

  bother robbing her. It would look as though she'd fallen.

  Quickly retracing his steps, he went back into the bedroom. He

  scanned the parking area, then stepped out the window, replaced

  the plant, pulled down the shade and closed the window to the

  exact place where Edna had had it. As he did, he heard the persistent

  chiming of a doorbell—her doorbell! Frantically he ran back

  to his car. He started the engine and drove out of the apartment

  complex, not turning on his headlights until he approached

  Route 4.

  Who was standing on Edna's doorstep? It had been close, so terribly

  close. Adrenaline pounded through his veins. Now there was

  only one threat left: Katie DeMaio. He would begin to remove

  that threat at once. Her accident had given him the excuse he

  needed to start medication.

  It was a matter of hospital record that her blood count was low.

  He would order another transfusion for her on the pretense of

  building her up for the operation. He would give her large doses

  of Coumadin pills to short-circuit her blood-clotting mechanism

  and negate the benefits of the transfusion. By Friday, when she

  came to the hospital for surgery, she'd be on the verge of hemorrhaging.

  The surgery would then be very dangerous, and he would

  make it even worse by giving her heparin, another anticoagulant.

  The initial low blood count, the Coumadin and the heparin would

  be as effective on Katie DeMaio as the cyanide had been on Vangie

  Lewis.

  AFTER THE MEETING IN SCOTT MYERSON'S office, Richard drove

  Katie to a rustic restaurant perched precariously on the Palisades.

  The small dining room was warmed by a blazing fire and lighted

  by candles. The proprietor obviously knew Richard well. "Dr. Carroll,

  a pleasure," he said as he guided them to the table in front

  of the fireplace.

  Richard ordered a bottle of wine; a waiter produced hot garlic

  bread. They sat in companionable silence, sipping and nibbling.

  Richard was a big man with a wholesome look, a thick crop of

  dark brown hair, strong, even features and broad, rangy shoulders.

  "Do you know I've been wanting to ask you out for months?" he

  said. "But you release a do-not-disturb signal. Why?"

  "I don't believe in going out with anyone I work with."

  "I can understand that. But that's not what we're talking about.

  We enjoy each other's company. We both know it. And you're having

  none of it. Here's the menu."

  His manner changed, became brisk. "L'entrecote and steak au

  poivre are the specialties here," he told her. When she hesitated,

  he suggested, "Try the steak au poivre. It's fantastic." He ordered

  salads and baked potatoes, then leaned back and studied her.

  "Are you having none of it, Katie?"

  "The salad? The steak?"

  "All right, I'm not being fair. I'm trying to pin you down and

  you're a captive audience. But tell me what you do when you're

  not at the office or your sister's. I know you ski."

  "Yes. I rent a condominium in Vermont with some friends."

  "Maybe you'll invite me up sometime with you." He did not

  wait for an answer. "Sailing is my sport. I took my boat to the

  Caribbean last spring. . . . Here's your steak."

  They lingered over coffee. By then Richard had told her about

  himself. "I was engaged during med school to the girl next door."

  "What happened?" Katie asked.

  "We kept postponing the wedding. Jean was a very nice girl.

  But there was something missing."

  "No regrets; no second thoughts?" Katie asked.

  "Not really. That was seven years ago. I'm a little surprised that

  the 'something missing' didn't turn up long before now."

  He did not seem to expect her to comment. Instead he began

  to talk about the Lewis case. "It makes me so angry, the waste of

  life. Vangie Lewis had a lot of years ahead of her."

  "You're convinced it wasn't a suicide?"

  "I'll need much more information before I pass judgment."

  "I don't see Chris Lewis as a murderer. It's too easy to get a

  divorce today if you want to be free."

  "There's another angle to that." Richard pressed his lips together.

  "Let's hold off talking about it."

  It was nearly ten thirty when they turned into Katie's driveway.

  Richard looked quizzically at the handsome fieldstone house.

  "How big is this place?" he asked. "How many rooms?"

  "Twelve," Katie said reluctantly. "It was John's house."

  Richard did not give her the chance to say good night at the

  door. Taking the key from her hand, he unlocked it and followed

  her in. "I'm not going to stay, but I do admit to an overwhelming

  curiosity as to where you keep yourself."

  She turned on some lights and watched somewhat resentfully as

  he looked over the foyer, then the living room. He whistled. "Very

  nice." He studied John's portrait. "I hear he was quite a guy."

  "Yes, he was."

  "How long were you married, Katie?"

  "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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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 morn

  ing. 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."

  DR. HIGHLEY hung up the phone slowly. Katie DeMaio suspected

  nothing. Her office apparently wanted nothing more of

  him than to discuss Vangie Lewis' emotional state. Unless, of

  course, someone had questioned Vangie's apparent suicide, perhaps

  raised the possibility that her body had been moved. The

  danger was still great.

  He was in the library of the Westlake home—his home now.

  The house was a manorlike Tudor with archways, marble fireplaces

  and Tiffany stained-glass windows. The Westlake house. The

  Westlake Hospital. The Westlake Maternity Concept. The name

  had given him immediate entree, socially and professionally.

  Marrying Winifred Westlake and coming to America to carry on

  her father's work had been a perfect excuse for leaving Engla
nd.

  No one, including Winifred, knew about the years before Liverpool,

  the years at Christ Hospital in Devon.

  Toward the end she had started to ask questions.

  It was nearly eleven o'clock and he hadn't had dinner yet.

  Knowing what he was going to do to Edna had robbed him of the

  desire to eat. But now that it was over, he craved food. He went

  into the kitchen. Hilda had left dinner for him in the microwave

  oven—a Cornish hen with wild rice. He just needed to heat it up.

  Because he needed the freedom of the house, the privacy of

  his library, he'd gotten rid of Winifred's live-in housekeeper. She

  had looked at him with sour, sullen eyes, swollen with weeping.

  "Miss Winifred was almost never sick until. . ." She was going to

  say "until she married you," but she didn't finish.

  Winifred's cousin resented him too. He had tried to make

  trouble after Winifred's death, but couldn't prove anything. They'd

  dismissed the cousin as a disgruntled ex-heir.

  Selecting a chilled bottle of wine from the refrigerator, Highley

  sat down to eat in the breakfast room. As he ate, his mind ran

  over the exact dosage he would give Katie DeMaio. Traces of

  the heparin and the Coumadin might show in her bloodstream if