Читать книгу Trick Or Treat Murder - Leslie Meier - Страница 15

A tapping at the kitchen door startled Lucy. Exhausted by the workout, she had been dozing in Bill’s recliner chair. The psychology book lay on the floor, where it had fallen. She rubbed her eyes and stretched, then hurried to the door. She blinked in surprise, recognizing Monica’s husband.

Dr. Roland Mayes was the sort of man who always wore a suit and tie, and looked uncomfortable in casual clothes. On his infrequent visits to Tinker’s Cove his polo shirts were obviously brand new, straight out of the package, and his casual slacks were crisply creased. Today, however, Roland didn’t look band-box fresh. His suit was rumpled as if he’d worn it for several days, and he had a dark five o’clock shadow.

“Come in, come in,” said Lucy. She gave him her best smile, hoping he wouldn’t realize how desperately she wished he hadn’t come. She had never liked him very much. On the rare occasions when she had spoken with him she had gotten the distinct impression that she was boring him. But now, she told herself, the poor man was bereaved. She had a duty to try and comfort him.

“Take a seat,” invited Lucy.

Roland staggered slightly as he headed for the chair, causing Lucy to look at him more closely. His face was pasty gray; he looked as if he was going to faint.

“When did you eat last?”

“I don’t remember,” he said, sitting down heavily at the table and placing a package in front of him. “I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat,” she said. “You need to keep up your strength. How about a sandwich?”

“I could use that,” he said. Lucy busied herself mixing up some tuna fish and laying slices of bread out on the counter.

“Bill and I both want you to know how sad we are about Monica,” said Lucy. Once again, tears were welling up in her eyes. Fortunately, she had her back to him and was able to brush them away. It wouldn’t do to inflict her own grief on this unfortunate man.

“It never should have happened,” he said, shaking his head as Lucy set a plate and mug of tea in front of him. “Tuna salad,” he said, looking up. “I haven’t had this in years.”

“Tuna’s a staple around here,” said Lucy, taking a sip of her own tea. “I suppose you’ve been to see the police and all. Are they making any progress in the investigation?”

“None, none at all,” he answered, taking a bite of his sandwich. “They’re absolute incompetents as far as I can tell. I’ve lost my house, and my wife, and they don’t seem to care.” His tone was belligerent, almost angry.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” said Lucy, in a soothing voice.

“Then why did that idiot police chief, Growley or Crowley or whatever his name is, keep me waiting forty-five minutes before he’d see me? And then he gave me the brush-off.” Outrage burned in his eyes.

Lucy ventured to guess that Roland knew a brush-off when he encountered one. As a successful doctor, he certainly knew the value of his time. He was most likely an experienced practitioner of the very tactics he deplored in Chief Crowley.

“He’s just a small-town cop,” said Lucy. “The state police are probably in charge of the investigation.”

“I don’t care who’s in charge. I want some answers. Somebody’s gonna have to pay for this,” he asserted, slamming his fist on the table and making the crumbs on his plate jump.

“This must be absolutely horrible for you,” sympathized Lucy.

“Horrible doesn’t begin to describe it.” He shook his head. “And it couldn’t have come at a worse time. My nomination for the Danforth prize was announced last week, you know.”

“I didn’t know. Congratulations.” She paused. “I’m not familiar with the Danforth. What’s it for?”

“The medical society’s most prestigious award. It’s between me and Feldman, the gastroenterologist. This won’t do me much good, I can tell you. The society are a pretty conservative group. They simply will not tolerate the least whiff of scandal.”

“How could they hold something as tragic as this against you? I should think you’ll get a huge sympathy vote. After all, none of this was your fault.”

“You’re absolutely right about that. Monica was so stubborn. She always had to have her own way. She wouldn’t listen to me. Oh, no! If this was anybody’s fault, it was hers.”

“Her fault?” Lucy was puzzled. The conversation seemed to have taken a strange turn. Perhaps Roland wasn’t quite as distraught as she had first thought.

“She took one look and went running off—wouldn’t even wait for an explanation. That would have required rationality, something Monica didn’t have a great deal of.”

“She was upset about something?”

“You could say that. What the hell? Everybody has fights, right? We’d been married for a long time. Thirty years.”

“That is a long time,” agreed Lucy.

“Hey, murder only gets you twenty, twenty-five years in this state, right?” It was an old joke, one he told automatically.

“I guess,” said Lucy, trying not to be judgmental. Grief took everyone differently, she reminded herself.

“I gotta get going. Hey, I almost forgot. I stopped by to give you this,” he said, rising and shoving the package across the table. “It’s a scrapbook Monica kept during the renovation.”

“Really?” Lucy was delighted, and deeply moved. “How thoughtful of you to think of us. We’ll treasure it always.”

“What was I gonna do with it?” he said, as she opened the door for him. “Right now, the fewer reminders I’ve got to deal with, the better.”