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CHRIS Lewis stood next to Vangie's parents at the right of the coffin, numbly acknowledging the sympathetic utterances of friends. When he'd phoned her parents about her death, they had agreed that they would view her body privately and have a memorial service the next morning followed by a private interment.
Instead, when he'd arrived in Mi
Vangie's parents looked old and tired and shattered with grief. They were plain, hardworking people who had brought up their unexpectedly beautiful child to believe her wish was law.
Would it be easier for them when it was revealed that someone had taken Vangie's life? Or did he owe it to them to say nothing, to keep that final horror from them? He wanted badly to talk to Joan. She'd been so upset when she heard about Vangie. "Did she know about us?" He'd finally had to admit to her that Vangie suspected he was interested in someone else.
Joan would be back from Florida on Friday, two days away. He was going to return to New Jersey tomorrow right after the funeral. He would say nothing to the police until he had warned Joan that she might be dragged into this. The police would be looking for a motive for him to kill Vangie. In their eyes, Joan would be the motive.
Chris glanced over at the coffin, at Vangie's now peaceful face, the quietly folded hands. He and Vangie had scarcely lived as man and wife in the past few years. They'd lain side by side like strangers, he emotionally drained from the endless quarreling, she wanting to be cajoled, babied.
A suspicion that had been sitting somewhere in his subconscious sprang to life. Was it possible that Vangie had become involved with another man, a man who did not want to take responsibility for her and a baby? Had she confronted that other man, hurled hysterical threats at him?
He realized that he was shaking hands, murmuring thanks to a man in his mid-sixties. He was slightly built but sturdily attractive, with gray hair and bushy brows over keen, penetrating eyes. "I'm Dr. Salem," he said. "Emmet Salem. I delivered Vangie and was her first gynecologist. She was one of the prettiest things I ever brought into this world, and she never changed. I only wish I hadn't been away when she phoned my office Monday."
Chris stared at him. "Vangie phoned you Monday?"
"Yes. My nurse said she was quite upset. Wanted to see me immediately. I was teaching a seminar in Detroit, but the nurse made an appointment for her for today. She was pla
Why had Vangie called this man? Chris tried to think. What would make her go back to a doctor she hadn't seen in years? A doctor thirteen hundred miles away?
"Had Vangie been ill?" Dr. Salem was looking at him curiously.
"No, not ill," Chris said. "As you probably know, she was expecting a baby, and it was a difficult pregnancy."
"Vangie was pregnant?" The doctor stared in astonishment.
"I know. She had just about given up hope. But in New Jersey she started the Westlake Maternity Concept. You may have heard of it, or of Dr. Highley-Dr. Edgar Highley." "Captain Lewis, may I speak with you privately?" The funeral director had a hand under his arm.
“Excuse me,” Chris said to the doctor. He allowed the funeral director to guide him into the office. The director closed the door. “I’ve just received a call from the prosecutor’s office in Valley County, New Jersey,” he said. “Written confirmation is on the way. We are forbidden to inter your wife’s body. It is to be flown back to the medical examiner’s office in Valley County immediately after the service tomorrow.”
They know it wasn’t suicide, Chris thought. Without answering the funeral director, he turned and left. He wanted to see Dr. Salem, find out what Vangie had said to the nurse on the phone.
But Dr. Salem was already gone. Vangie’s mother rubbed swollen eyes with a crumpled handkerchief. “What did you say to Dr. Salem that made him leave like that?” she asked. “Why did you upset him so terribly?”
WEDNESDAY evening Edgar Highley arrived home at six o’clock. Hilda was just leaving. He knew she liked this job. Why not? A house that stayed neat; no mistress to constantly give orders; no children to clutter it.
No children. He went into the library, poured a Scotch and watched from the window as Hilda disappeared down the street.
He had gone into medicine because his own mother had died in childbirth. His birth. “Your mother wanted you so much,” his father had told him again and again. “She knew she was risking her life, but she didn’t care.”
Sitting in the chemist’s shop in Brighton, watching his father prepare prescriptions, asking questions: “What is that? What will that pill do? Why do you put caution labels on those bottles?”
He’d gone to medical school, finished in the top ten percent of his class. He’d interned at Christ Hospital in Devon, with its magnificent research laboratory. He’d become a member of staff;
his reputation as an obstetrician had grown rapidly. But his project had been held back by his inability to test it.
At twenty-seven he'd married Claire, a distant cousin of the earl of Sussex. She was infinitely superior to him in social background, but his growing reputation had been the leveler. And what incredible ignominy. He who dealt in birth and fertility had married a barren woman.
When had he started to hate Claire? It took a long time-seven years. It was when he realized that her disappointment was faked; that she'd known all along that she could not conceive.
Impatiently he turned from the window. It would be another cold, wind-filled night. When all this was over, he'd take a vacation. He was losing his grip on his nerves. He had nearly given himself away this morning when Gertrude told him that Edna had phoned in sick. He'd grasped the desk, watched his knuckles whiten. Then he'd realized: Gertrude was covering for her friend.
The missing shoe. This morning he'd gone to the hospital soon after dawn and once again searched the parking lot and the office. Had Vangie been wearing it when she came into his office Monday night? He couldn't be sure. The other shoe, the right one, was still in his bag in the trunk of the car.
Even if the police started an investigation into Vangie's death, there was no evidence against him. Her file in the office could bear intensive scrutiny. All the true records of the special cases were here in the wall safe, and he defied anyone to locate that safe. It wasn't even in the original plans of the house.
Anyway, no one had any reason to suspect him-no one except Katie DeMaio.
Fukhito had come in to see him just as he was locking up tonight. He'd said, "Mrs. DeMaio was asking a lot of questions. Is it possible that they don't believe Mrs. Lewis committed suicide?"
"I really don't know." He'd enjoyed Fukhito's nervousness.
"The interview you gave to that magazine comes out tomorrow?"
"Yes. But I gave them the impression I use a number of psychiatric consultants. Your name will not appear in the article."
"Still, it's going to put the spotlight on us."
"On yourself. Isn't that what you're saving, Doctor?"
He'd almost laughed aloud at the troubled, guilty look on Fukhito's face. Now, finishing his Scotch, he realized that he had been overlooking another avenue of escape. If the police concluded that Vangie had been murdered, if they did investigate Wesdake, he could reluctantly suggest that they interrogate Dr. Fukhito. Especially in view of his past. After all, Fukhito was the last person known to have seen Vangie Lewis alive.