“Moderate concussion,” she mumbled through a mouthful of macaroni. “Hasn’t waked up yet. Wrecked his car coming down Sandy Ridge from his mother’s house after dinner. Sheriff was thinking it might be related.”
“Maybe he was just in a hurry to leave,” Plato said. “Any sign of tampering?”
“Plus-minus,” Cal replied. With the butt of her knife, she hammered her fork into the steak and gnawed it like a Popsicle. “The brake fluid was pretty low. Air in the lines. But the lines themselves were intact. Ian thinks someone might have messed with the master cylinder.”
“But why would they want to kill Leonard Reiss? His writing’s bad, but that’s true for most of the
“Guess again.”
Crunching his broccoli, he considered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Of course! Mrs. Reiss drives exactly the same kind of car. She told us.”
“Bingo. The sheriff asked for a state cop to guard her. Seems she might be very important to this case.” Cal frowned at her steaksicle. “This is really awful.”
With a grunt of resignation, she slipped it into the micro-wave, holding the power button down for a minute or so. The meat emerged steaming, juicy, and appetizing.
The phone rang again, but Cal just placed it inside the refrigerator. It bleated faintly like a lost sheep. Plato rose to answer it.
“No!” Cal ordered. “Whatever it is, it can wait. If the hospital wants you, they’ll use your pager.”
While she wolfed the rest of her meal, Plato summarized the interviews with Homer and Jan Thorndyke.
“She seems to have sold you,” Cal noted.
He shrugged. “Maybe. She certainly has the motive — Rufus was worth a few million at last count. And who knows how much the Mardyke stock could bring? But she seemed too upset. It couldn’t be an act.”
“You may be an obstetrician, but you don’t know women,” Cal said. “When we put our minds to it, we can be the best actors in the world.”
“You weren’t there, Cal,” he reminded his wife. “You didn’t talk to her.”
They were at an impasse until the doorbell rang.
Ian again. Plato showed him into the kitchen, asked if he’d eaten.
“No.” He sat at the table, scrutinized Cal’s plate. “But I’ve been trying to trim up a bit.”
“What about you, Ian?” Cal asked. “Are you convinced Jan’s innocent, too?”
He threw his hands up in exasperation. “There are so many suspects in this case, I’m not buying anything yet. I’ve been hoping you might have a bone or two for me. Do you have those autopsy results?”
Cal nodded. “Unfortunately, it’s nothing you don’t already know. Death was due to arsenic in both cases. Analysis of the stomach contents was basically inconclusive — we’re pretty sure the arsenic came in food, rather than a beverage. There’s very little excoriation of the mouth or esophagus. No signs that force was used, no external entry wounds or needle punctures. We
“So much for modern science,” Ian complained. “I checked up on Callahan — though he doesn’t seem to have a motive. His alibi’s solid. He was in San Diego from Sunday morning until late Sunday evening. He was scheduled to arrive at five thirty, but his plane was delayed in St. Louis.”
“That fits what he told us,” Cal agreed.
“How’s Reiss doing?” Plato asked.
“About the same. Not awake yet. But they seem confident that he’ll pull out of it.”
Cal started. “Ian, is there any possibility that someone was after Leonard? What was he investigating down in the capital?”
“Pretty sharp of you to think of that. The thought had crossed my mind, too. I called his editor at the
He brightened. “I did find out something interesting, though. Remember what I said about Homer?”
They nodded.
“Well, I did some research of my own. Down at the library in Seneca.” Ian pulled his beard thoughtfully. “Seems young Homer does have a motive after all. He lost the use of his legs back when he was fifteen. In a water skiing accident on Lake Cantauck. And guess who was driving the boat?”
“Rufus Thorndyke,” Plato answered.
“Right. Worse, he was drunk as a skunk. There was a scandal, but he never was charged.”
“How awful,” Cal whispered softly.
“Do you think he did it?” Plato asked.
Ian shrugged. “Maybe. He’s a microbiologist. He was at the party all day. Plenty of means and opportunity. And all the motive in the world.”
“What about the attempt on Mrs. Reiss, though?” Cal asked. “I mean, in his wheelchair it might be hard to sneak up and drain that brake fluid.”
The sheriff shuddered. “I’ve seen him in action, lass. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
The next morning, the telephone jangled Plato from a fitful sleep. Blearily, he rubbed the fog from his eyes and glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. He was late for morning rounds.
“Hello?” His voice was still fuzzy.
