They took seats in the visitors’ lounge. Near the window, a gray-haired man snoozed in a recliner. His shoes lay beside the chair, and a pink toe poked through one of his white socks. A fat man with a face like melted rubber sifted through the ancient magazines in the rack. Oprah Winfrey barked from a television hanging on the wall.
“What do you think about young Thorndyke?” Ian asked softly. “Rather interesting — his mention of arsenic.”
Rubber-face scowled at them, then took his seat.
“Possibly,” Plato conceded. “On the other hand, he may have guessed when you pointed to the rats.”
“Oh. Rat poison.” Ian grinned sheepishly. “Stupid of me, wasn’t it?”
“Not really. He might have figured it out anyway. He seems to be very intelligent.”
The sheriff sat back, scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Belligerent bastard, though. He sure did get friendly all of a sudden, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. When you asked him about Jan. Do you think he suspects her?”
Ian shrugged. “I do know one thing. He doesn’t want
They sat watching the screen until a commercial came on.
“You have to wonder what makes a son hate his father so,” Ian mused. “It isn’t natural.”
“Neither is murder.”
“I might do a little research into that lad’s past.” Out came the black notebook again.
An angry shriek came from Jan Thorndyke’s room, accompanied by a throaty growl. It sounded like a bobcat arguing with a bear. A nurse rushed to the room, listened, then returned to her desk.
Plato recalled the only time Homer had volunteered information. “What about the business partner? What did you find out about that?”
“Dead end. The man was in San Diego on Sunday.” Cameron scratched a bedraggled sideburn. “And the killer had to be at the party, right?”
“How else could he give the arsenic at just the right time — when everyone else was getting sick from spoiled food?” Plato frowned. “Of course, it could be a wild coincidence. How about some random killer lacing store-bought medications?”
“We thought of that, checked all his medicines when we checked the dishes. So far, everything’s negative.”
The charge nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Thorndyke will see you now.”
There was no answer to their knock. “Mrs. Thorndyke?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Sheriff Cameron and Dr. Marley. May we ask you a few questions?”
There was a pause, then a quavery answer. “Come in.”
It was hard to find a chair. Scarce pinpoints of light trickled through the Venetian blinds to throw a pattern of dots across the sheets. Jan Thorndyke looked even more fragile in the thin hospital gown than she had at the party. Wispy blonde hair hung in disarray about her angular face. She fiddled nervously with the plastic line running between the IV bag and her arm.
Tissues were flung in a pile on the nightstand beside a vase of red roses. Her eyes were puffy and glistening.
“You are aware that your husband’s death wasn’t accidental.”
“My doctor told me about it — about the arsenic,” Jan replied quietly. “Who would want to kill Rufus?”
“That’s what we’re here to ask you, Mrs. Thorndyke.” Ian glanced at the nightstand. “Nice flowers.”
“Hmm? Oh, those.” She looked away quickly, tipped her head back. “My father just brought them to me.”
“First off, I want to say how sorry we all are — about your husband’s death.” The sheriff took a seat beside Jan’s bed, placed his hand over hers. For a moment, Plato forgot she was Ian’s primary suspect. “Did your husband mention any problems here at the hospital? Or at his company? Unhappy employees, people who were harassing him?”
“No. There was nothing like that.” The sun was setting, and the dots on her bed were disappearing, one by one. “Rufus was very well-liked, both here and at Mardyke.”
“Money problems?”
“None. He was doing very well.” She brushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead. “The company was close to releasing its newest drug. Rufus was very excited.”
“Was he?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, Martin Callahan had us over on Saturday for dinner and a swim. To celebrate.” Jan smiled briefly. “Rufus failed at medical school, you know. He tells —
“Speaking of medicine,” Plato interrupted, “did your husband get along very well with his son?”
“He tried. Believe me, he tried.” She sighed. “He’s made more contributions to the school than you can imagine. And he was always calling Homer, asking him to social functions, being interested. And always getting the cold shoulder.”
“What caused the falling-out in the first place?”
“I don’t know. I asked Rufus about it once.” The widow shivered. “I got the impression it was something he’d rather not talk about. Other than that, we didn’t have any secrets.”
“A good marriage, then,” Ian concluded.
“Yes,” she agreed emphatically. “Two years now, and it still felt like our honeymoon. We used to joke about it. How it would last forever...”
“You have our sympathy, ma’am.” The sheriff patted her hand. “Your father — he’s probably a great source of comfort—”
