Part 37 (2/2)
”No, actually.”
”Well, I haven't got proof positive, but . . . let's say it seems likely. Iguess it might change your thinking aboutwhyMaureen killed herself-”
”She didn't,” he said.
Keely started. ”Excuse me?”
”She didn't kill herself.”
”But I saw her,” Keely sputtered. ”You saw her, too . . .”
”Oh, she's dead all right. But not by her own hand.”
Keely felt a chill run through her. Abby, sensing the tension in her mother's body, began to whimper. Keely bobbed her automatically in her arms. ”Why do you say that?” she asked.
”We have new and convincing evidence that it was a homicide.”
”Homicide. But it's impossible. She was . . .”
”I know. In the garage, with the car running . . .”
”In that . . . outfit,” Keely said with a grimace.
”We think somebody dressed her in that outfit,” he said.
Keely forced herself to remember. Maureen, the bright pink of her complexion, the crooked veil, the wedding dress. ”The slippers,” she said suddenly.
”Excuse me?” Phil asked.
”That bothered me a little bit, actually. I mean, at the time, it was all so awful I couldn't think. But those slippers . . . Now that you say it, I remember wondering why a woman would wear bedroom slippers with a wedding dress.”
”Apparently, somebody else dressed her,” said Phil.
Keely stared at him. ”I don't believe it. How could someone . . . ? Do you mean she was dead when she was put into the car?” she asked.
Phil shook his head. ”No, not dead. She died of carbon monoxide poisoning. That's why her skin was that awful color.”
”You've lost me, Detective,” said Keely.
”Look, because it's now officially a homicide,” Phil said impatiently,”we have to question all the possible suspects and witnesses again. Would you be willing to come in and answer some more questions?”
”Of course. If necessary.”
”Just for the record, would you be willing to take a lie detector test?” Phil asked.
Keely glared at him. ”I'd be glad to,” she said. ”Right now. Let's do it.”
Phil raised a hand in surrender. ”It's enough that you agreed. You have an alibi. We know where you were. I already spoke to the security guard and to your neighbor, Mr. Warner. I reached him at his daughter's house, in Boston. He confirmed that you were at home at the time of Maureen Chase's death. But Mrs. Weaver, did you see anyone . . . pa.s.s anyone in the driveway or on the road to Maureen's house that you can remember?”
Keely forced herself to try to recall that night. ”No,” she said. ”But look, I was pretty upset. I mean, I was going to confront her about all those phone calls. I wasn't looking out for anybody else.”
”Did you move anything, throw anything away . . .?”
”I moved Maureen Chase. I tried to save her life.”
”I know you did.”
”But she was dead,” Keely cried. ”She was already dead.”
Phil nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment.
Then Keely said, ”I don't understand, Detective. If she wasn't dead, how did they dress her? How did they get her in the car? She was a pretty tough lady. I doubt she would have gone willingly.”
”She was drugged,” Phil said with a sigh. ”The M.E. found a tiny hypodermic puncture wound in her neck.
”Hypodermic? Are you saying somebody snuck up on her and jabbed her? How could that be possible?”
”We think it was someone she knew. Someone she let into her house, never suspecting.”
”I don't get it. You mean someone came to her house with a needle full of drugs so they could knock her out? And then they set it up to look like suicide?”
”They wanted it to look like suicide. Yes. But we don't think it was planned.”
”Not planned? Well, who walks around with a hypodermic needle full of drugs? I mean, I guess it could have been a junkie,” she thought aloud. ”Maureen probably had prosecuted a number of junkies. Although I can't believe she'd invite some known heroin addict into her house.”
”No, it wasn't like that . . .” he said.
”How can you be so sure?” she asked.
”The drug,” he said.
Keely frowned at him. ”What do you mean? What about the drug?”
”The toxicology tests came back. It was insulin,” he said.
”Insulin,” she whispered.
”It put her into shock. We're a.s.suming the killer was a diabetic who was carrying insulin. I mean, if they'd gone there intending to knock her out, there are any number of other drugs they might use. Not insulin. That had to be a spur of the moment thing. What's the matter, Mrs. Weaver?”
”Nothing,” Keely insisted. ”It's just . . . I'm just surprised.”
Phil stared at her. ”You seem fl.u.s.tered. Does the diabetic thing ring any bells?”
”No,” she snapped. Her heart was pounding, but she tried to make her voice calm. ”No, of course not,” she lied.
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