Part 11 (1/2)

”Dr. Minick,” she said cautiously, ”you've done a remarkable job of rehabilitating a desperate young man. You have made him whole and complete, but he needs you and always will. A child needs the parent.”

After a moment he nodded. ”Thank you, Barbara. Let me show you something I treasure beyond words.”

He stood up and hurried from the room, and returned with a framed picture, which he handed to her. It was one of Alex's drawings, a tent with strange feet, and a stranger top that might have been a head with a lightbulb nose under a great wide-brimmed hat.

”That's me, how Alex saw me the day we met,” Dr. Minick said. ''It was snowing. That figure appears now and then in his strip Xander. The lightbulb glows when he sees something bad is about to happen. When the light goes on, the boy Timmy clutches his head; there is communication of some sort, and he turns into Xander and is off to the rescue.”

She smiled at the drawing and handed it back. ”Point taken,” she said.

”Yes. Exactly. One day you'll probably become a character in his strip. It will be interesting to see how he treats you.”

She laughed. ”I'm not sure I'm ready for that. How would he treat Sh.e.l.ley?”

”Like the princess on the gla.s.s hill. You know the fairy tale? She lives on top of a gla.s.s mountain so smooth that no one can climb it, although many try.”

”That's very sad,” Barbara said.

”Yes, it is. Now, what did you want to tell me, or have me tell you?”

”It's about Hilde Franz-her death, specifically. I have her autopsy report, and I'd like an expert opinion of what it means. Okay?”

He nodded, and she handed the autopsy report to him, then watched him read it. When he finished, he said, ”What's your question about it?”

”Would that medication kill her? Why did she die in her sleep?”

”Ah, I see. Meperidine HCl, a muscle relaxant, a.n.a.lgesic, narcotic: powerful medicine. I've never done forensic medicine. I'd have to know how much she took, if she had built up a tolerance, if it was oral or IV -administered. How much had she already metabolized. They probably were looking for meperidine, since she had the prescription, but were they looking for anything else after they found that?”

”It was all there was in her house. An oral dose, capsules,” Barbara said. ”She made a phone call at about eleven, and the estimated time of death is between one and three in the morning.”

”Capsules. Just a second,” he said, and left the room again, this time to return with a thick book, which he consulted. ”Capsules come in fifty-milligram doses. So, if she had not built a tolerance and took just one, she probably would have relaxed enough to have a restful sleep. Two, a deeper sleep; she might have slept through a thunderstorm. Three is getting rather heavy for her weight; sleep would have been much deeper. She would have been hard to awaken. Four at one time could have edged into the danger zone. Do they know how much she took?”

”Let's just a.s.sume a fatal overdose,” Barbara said. ”No one knows how many she had. What would the progression be?”

”Depends on the dosage, of course. Palpitations, sweating, hypothermia, coma, paralysis, apnea, cardiac arrest, death. Depends on the dose, her physical condition, what she had eaten prior to taking the medication; the autopsy report indicates that her last meal was six to eight hours before her death.” He shook his head, as if trying to shake away other memories.

”Barbara, I've seen people go through the same array of symptoms from taking two aspirins. What was her prescription for? Did she tolerate it in the past? There are many questions to be answered before you can a.s.sume a fatal overdose.”

”She used it a couple of years ago,” Barbara said, puzzled by the intensity of his gaze, a new harshness that had come into his voice. ''It was labeled to be taken three or four times a day, and she took it for at least two days, then one at bedtime for a while. If she had not tolerated it then, it doesn't seem likely that she would have kept the remaining capsules.”

”People change,” he said. ”But if she was confident about how she would react to the medication, then she would have known better than to take more than one or two at the most. What are you suggesting? That she overdosed on purpose? Suicide?”

Barbara shook her head. ”I don't know. Could she have been certain an overdose would kill her?”

”No. More likely she would have gone into a coma, suffered brain damage. The autopsy says no signs of a struggle. She fell asleep and never woke up, but she couldn't have counted on that to happen. She was too intelligent not to know that. She wouldn't have risked brain damage and possibly a vegetative existence afterward.”

The harshness in his voice made her want to apologize, retreat, close the subject and not refer to it again. Of course, Alex had tried to commit suicide with prescription medication and alcohol, and for years Dr. Minick had served as a children's psychologist, a crisis manager. He must have seen many suicides.

”I'm sorry,” she said. ”I know I appear heartless, trying to make the death of a woman fit into a big puzzle. I didn't mean it that way. You've been helpful, and I'm grateful.” She stood up. ”I should be on my way.”

Dr. Minick got up and handed her the autopsy report. ”In my years of practicing medicine, and then as a psychologist, I've seen people die who should have lived, and I've seen some live for whom we had given up hope. I'll never believe that Hilde killed herself purposely or that she killed herself accidentally by taking an overdose. That leaves the mysterious hand of G.o.d, I suppose, and I tell you this, I have come to hate that hand with all my soul.” He turned away. ”I'll get that other hate literature for you.”

He left and returned with a manila envelope, which she stuffed into her briefcase without a glance.

”Those people,” he said, watching her stow it away, ”walk the earth sowing hatred, and good people like Hilde and Leona are swept away. Why? That's the real mystery of the universe. I'm glad you came today.”

”I am, too,” she said. She held out her hand, but to her surprise he clasped her to him in an embrace, and she was strangely comforted by it.

At seven o'clock she pulled into Frank's driveway and entered the house. Frank looked better than he had that morning. He had slept and loafed and read, he reported, and there was cheese and wine in the kitchen, and dinner on the way. He had ordered pork loin in wine-garlic sauce from Martin's for both of them. She groaned at the thought of real food, and headed for cheese to tide her over.

Then, in the kitchen nibbling cheese, trying to resist filling up on it, she told him about her day. She did not mention the name of the doctor she had consulted. ”So,” she said, wrapping it up, ”two years ago, if Hilde took from six to eight of the capsules the first two days, then one a night for the next seven, that means she used thirteen to fifteen out of thirty of the capsules, leaving fifteen to seventeen, or thereabouts. With a strained muscle that's a reasonable guess. We'll a.s.sume that she didn't use them again until now. Anyway, they found fourteen, which means she could have taken one or two, three at the outside, and that wouldn't have been enough for a fatal overdose. So I don't know where that leaves us.”

Frank had listened without a word. He moved the cheese platter out of her reach almost absently. ”I don't like coincidences,” he said after a moment.

”Right. What time did you tell Martin?”

”Between seven and seven-thirty. I talked with Hilde's insurance agent; there's a video of the house contents, he said. He advised her to put it in her safe-deposit box. And I called Hilde's brother. They will have her funeral on Friday, and he agreed that I should empty her safe-deposit box and have everything ready for him to pick up on Sat.u.r.day. I'll empty the box tomorrow.”

She poured more wine. ”And we don't have a clue about what Mr. Wonderful, or whoever it was, was after. What usually happens in a situation like this? The family comes around to look over the house, then what?”

Frank shrugged. ”They'll tag things they want to keep, more than likely, haul them away, and then have an estate sale. It will take time, a couple of weeks more than likely before that happens.”

”Then anyone could walk in and plop down a dollar or two and take out whatever it is he's after. No one the wiser.”

”Maybe. Sometimes a dealer will make an offer, for antiques, or art, things of that sort, and take them all for a flat price. Someone could offer a hundred dollars for all the books, for instance, and take them away, the worthwhile and the worthless, and sort them later.”

Their food arrived, and Alan came in to eat with them. No one talked business as they ate; it would have been sacrilegious to discuss anything except food: tender green beans, asparagus in a lemon sauce, pork loin with more than a hint of garlic in a wine sauce, tiny new potatoes....

”You should take up lunch,” Frank commented, watching Barbara help herself to more of everything. ”Good habit to get into, lunch.”

”I don't know,” she said. ”I'll have to walk an hour to compensate for food like this. If I ate this way through the whole day, all I'd have time for would be meals and exercise.”

”No mountain climbing over the weekend?” Frank asked.

”Nope. Law library all weekend.” She looked at him quickly, as if regretting her words, and there it was back between them. She was involved in something she wouldn't talk about. A careful neutral expression settled on Frank's face. And she said, ”Now I am going to take a walk. Start the digestive juices flowing.”

Alan started to rise and she waved him down again. ”Finish eating. Your job is to keep an eye on the house and Dad. The park's full of people this time of day, and I'll be back before dark.”

It didn't leave her a lot of time, she reflected a few minutes later, walking on the bike trail by the river. It was eight o'clock already, but the park was full of people.

She walked faster as an idea began to take shape, and presently she turned and retraced her steps to Frank's house. It was after nine and, to her regret, he looked worried.

”I'll have coffee now,” she said, ”and then tell you an idea I had.”

At the dinette table she said, ”We could stake out the house and nab him if he shows up again, but chances are he'll just wait for the family to take things away and go after it in Medford, or wait for that sale you mentioned and get what he's after then. What if he sees a van with an antique dealer's name, someone who buys collectibles, books, art, things of that sort? He might want to enter at night and retrieve his own collectible before everything is boxed up and put some place with real security.”

Frank shook his head. ”I don't want to bring in a dealer. That might even put someone in danger.”