Untimely Death (5 page)

After ending the conversation with Charlotte, Ray, too, had mulled over various possibilities while reminding himself to keep his theorizing in check. A ping signaling a priority e-mail interrupted his thoughts, and after reading it, he called Charlotte back.

“When we were in her room last night, did you see any Tylenol?” He listened for a moment and then asked, “Can you take another look in her purse?” After letting her know he was on his way over, he put on his coat and hat and closed the office door behind him.

“Come on, Phil,” he said to the sergeant sitting at the desk nearest to his office. “We’re going over to Jacobs Hotel to pick up the purse that belongs to that actress who’s in the hospital. Just had the tox screen results. She’s had an overdose of acetaminophen.”

“Acetamino . . .”

“Phen. Tylenol. Plain old Tylenol.”

Phil Davenport was a lanky, easygoing kind of guy, often underestimated by young offenders who made fun of his curly red hair. But when pushed, he turned quickly into someone they really shouldn’t mess with.

“When we’ve got the purse, I want you to go to the hospital and see if she’s up to speaking with you. I’m starting to get a feeling that something’s not right here, and we need to get to the bottom of it,” said Ray as he slid into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt.

They drove along Helm Street, waving at the owner of the antique shop who was setting up an old-fashioned English pram with a sign around it as part of his sidewalk display.

“Things don’t change much around here, do they, Ray?” said Phil. “Do you ever long for more action, more big-city kind of crime?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” said Ray. “It would be good to have a chance every now and then to practice what we learn at those courses the state sends us on. ‘Advanced crowd control’ and what have you. Crowd control hasn’t been needed in these parts since 1969. How about you? Ever think you’d like to move to the big city?”

Phil smiled. “Sometimes, but it ain’t gonna happen. The wife wants the kids to grow up in a nice, safe community where everybody knows everybody else, and nothing ever happens.”

“Can’t blame her, really,” said Ray, as they turned into the hotel driveway. “If I had kids, I’d probably want the
same thing.” He pointed to an almost empty unpaved parking area near the entrance. “Park over there. We’ll go in the front door with our hats on. Makes our visit look more official.”

The two officers walked up the short sidewalk to the hotel’s front door and entered the lobby. It was empty. Overstuffed brown sofas and easy chairs waiting for occupants were positioned on an elaborately patterned brown carpet. Several huge jardinières overflowing with ferns whose brown leaves matched the furniture were dotted about. Straight ahead of them was a heavy wooden reception desk with a little silver bell and guest book. Phil dinged the bell, and a moment later, a door behind the desk opened and Harvey Jacobs presented himself.

“Oh,” he said, peering from one to the other, “how may I help you gentlemen?”

“We’ve come to pick up something from Charlotte Fairfax,” said Ray. “If you would please let her know we’re here?”

“Yes, of course.” Harvey picked up the phone on the desk, entered four digits, and waited. “Oh, Aaron, it’s you. Is Charlotte there?” He listened for a moment. “No, just tell her I’ve got two police officers in reception to see her. They’re here to pick something up.”

He replaced the receiver. “If you’d like to have a seat, she’ll be right with you.”

“That’s all right,” said Phil. “We’ll stand.”

“Very good. Well, if you don’t need me for anything else, I’ll get back to my work.” Jacobs disappeared back through the door, leaving Phil contemplating several rows of old-fashioned pigeon holes and dozens of room keys hanging from little hooks. He placed his forearm on the reception desk, leaned on it, and turned to Ray.

“I remember those days,” he said in a low voice, “when you’d get your room key and then leave it at the desk when you went out so they’d know when the room was unoccupied. I didn’t know hotels still had proper keys. Thought they all had swipe cards now.”

“Apparently not,” said Ray. He stiffened at the sound of approaching footsteps, and a moment later, Charlotte, carrying Lauren’s black tote bag, trotted into the lobby. She smiled a hello at both of them and asked after Phil’s family.

“I didn’t really go through it,” she said as she handed the bag to Ray. “Just checked the wallet to make sure it was hers. That’s when I saw the different name. Leah Patricia Kaplan. Aaron told me she and her group of mean girls bullied his cousin to death about seven years ago.”

“Jeez,” said Ray. “Really? That’s terrible.”

“And I looked for the Tylenol, as you asked.”

“Okay,” said Ray. “Phil’s going to take the bag over to the hospital now and see if Lauren’s up to talking to him. She’s the only one who can tell us what happened.”

Charlotte said good-bye and disappeared back into the building as the two police officers left. When the lobby was empty, Harvey Jacobs remained where he was, his mind whirling, and then closed the little panel that served as the false back to a pigeonhole. This wasn’t the first time he’d been grateful to his father for installing the peephole that let him see and hear what was going on at the reception desk and in the lobby without being observed.

*

“She’s showing a lot of improvement this morning,” said the nurse as she led Phil to Lauren’s room. “In this type of situation, once the patient turns the corner, recovery can be very quick. Especially if she’s young and fit and the amount of drug taken is below a certain threshold. She’s very lucky, though, that she hasn’t suffered any organ damage. In fact, after the doctor’s finished his rounds, she could be discharged later today. We don’t like to keep anyone in longer than necessary.”

“Good to hear,” said Phil. “Before we go in, could I just ask you a few questions about this Tylenol overdose?” The nurse answered his questions and then opened the door to Lauren’s room. Phil followed her in and waited while she took Lauren’s pulse. The nurse gave him a brief nod and then spoke to her patient.

“Sergeant Phil Davenport from our local police would like to ask you a few questions, Lauren, if you feel up to speaking with him.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t be too long,” the nurse said to Phil as she prepared to leave the room. “We don’t want to tire her out.” She lowered her voice and with her back to her patient, added, “If she shows any signs of distress, you should stop.”

Lauren was wearing the pale yellow nightdress Charlotte had chosen for her that Ray had dropped off last night. She wriggled higher in the narrow bed with side rails to a sitting position, pulled the pillows up behind her, and then looked expectantly at Phil. He showed her the tote bag. “Yours?”

Lauren reached out for it. “Yeah.”

“I’d like you to check and see if anything’s missing.”

Lauren opened it, scrabbled around examining the contents, and pulled out a zebra-patterned makeup bag. “Oh, thank God. I need this. You have no idea what it’s been like.”

She set it beside her on the bed and then went back to rummaging around in the tote bag. “No, everything seems to be here.”

She picked up the makeup bag, unzipped it, and took out a lipstick and compact.

Phil pulled the visitor’s chair closer to the bed and sat down. “Feel up to answering a few questions?” he asked as he flipped open his notebook.

“I already said yes. What would you like to know?” She clicked the clasp on the compact and examined her
face in the mirror, turning it this way and that, to catch the light from the window that overlooked the front of the redbrick building.

“Apparently you’ve had an acetaminophen overdose. Most commonly found in the medication Tylenol. Do you remember taking Tylenol? Could you have exceeded the recommended dosage?”

Lauren shook her head. “I never take Tylenol. I don’t even own any.” She frowned. “The doctor asked me that question, too, and I was really surprised when he told me they’d found that drug in my system. Well, I know I didn’t take it myself, so someone must have slipped it to me somehow. Trying to poison me, maybe. That’s all I can think of.”

“Okay. Now the nurse told me that someone with,” he checked his notes, “acetaminophen toxicity can start feeling and showing symptoms anywhere from twenty-four to forty-eight hours after ingesting it. Can you think of any situation you were in up to two days before you felt ill during which time someone could have given you an excessive amount of the drug? Were you given any food or drink you didn’t prepare yourself?”

“No, I don’t remember anything like that.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to think about it. People sometimes find it helpful to check their schedules to remind them where they were and what they were doing. See if you can come up with who you were with and what you
were doing during that time period. Also think about anyone who might have wanted to harm you.”

Lauren shook her head. “
Nooo
,” she said slowly, with an ingratiating smile. “Why would anyone want to harm me?”

Phil, who had been briefed on Lauren’s background, did not think it necessary to mention that the wife of a married man who is having an affair often harbors negative feelings toward the woman her husband is sleeping with.

He handed her his card, which she dropped into her tote bag without looking at it. “Well, if you do remember anything, no matter how trivial it might seem to you, please contact me. Thanks for your time today, and I hope you feel better soon.”

“Oh, I’m feeling much better now,” she said. “I’m anxious to get back to the theater. They said I might be discharged this afternoon.”

She pulled a tube of foundation out of her makeup kit, squeezed a drop onto the end of her finger, and began dabbing at her face. It couldn’t have been clearer that, as far as she was concerned, this interview was over. Phil got the message.

As he walked down the hall toward the elevator, he spotted a familiar figure hovering around the nurses’ station. The fluorescent lighting meant he couldn’t make out the details of the person, but he didn’t need to. The unmistakable silhouette of a fedora with a belted raincoat could belong to none other than Fletcher Macmillan,
general reporter for the
Hudson Valley Echo
, who, for want of staff, also served as its arts editor. He reviewed local art and photography exhibits, books by local authors, concerts, theater productions, and everything else of a cultural nature. Phil braced himself as Fletcher advanced toward him, notebook in hand. It wasn’t the questions Phil minded; it was the New York accent, reminiscent of society characters in old black-and-white movies, combined with a pseudo-British vocabulary that really annoyed him. As far as Phil or anyone else knew, Fletcher had never been further east than Boston.

“Ah, Phil! The very fellow! I was going to ring you. Need a quote, if you’d be so kind. Were you here to see Lauren Richmond? Did she try to commit suicide? Or was she poisoned? What are the police doing about it? Should the rest of the community be concerned? Do we have a mad poisoner in our midst?”

“Tell you what, Fletcher,” said Phil. “Give me a call at the office later today, and I’ll have a proper statement for you. Let’s do this right, shall we?”
Old chap
, he added to himself. A smile teased the corners of his mouth as he thought about Fletcher Macmillan interviewing Lauren Richmond. Both so ambitious and self-absorbed with a hugely overinflated sense of their own importance and talent. He snickered as he pressed the elevator button. He could hardly wait to read the story.

But first, he had to call Ray.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said when Ray picked up. “A couple of them, actually. Lauren says she didn’t take the Tylenol herself.” He listened for a moment and then answered Ray’s question. “Yes. I do believe her. And there’s something else. Macmillan’s sniffing around, and he used the same word Lauren did—
poison
.”

“Charlotte, Brian Prentice called while you were out.” Aaron handed her one of her scrap pieces of paper with a number on it she could barely read. “He wants you to call him before four. He’s at home in his bungalow.”

Charlotte sighed and sat down at her desk. She’d dreaded this moment since Brian and his wife had driven past her on the day they arrived, and although she’d managed to avoid him when she spoke to the cast about Lauren’s handbag, she knew she couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer. She thought about sending Aaron off on an errand so she could return Brian’s call in private, and then decided to grasp the bull by the horns.

“Aaron, I’m going over to the bungalow to speak with him. It’s not even three o’clock, so I should be in time. You can hold the fort here.”

She slipped on her green plaid spring coat and walked through the grounds to what was known as the “star
bungalow.” Simon had told her that Lady Deborah spent her days in New York City, lunching, visiting museums and galleries, usually returning late afternoon in time for a sherry before dinner. If her car was parked outside the bungalow, Charlotte would turn around and return to her office; if not, she and Brian could have their awkward meeting and get it over with. She doubted he’d been looking forward to it, either. She wondered if he’d known she would be here when he signed his contract to appear in this summer’s productions. Still, everything between them had happened a long time ago, and he probably didn’t care one way or the other about any of it now. Why should he? Come to that, why should she?

Lady Deborah’s car was not there, so she knocked on the frame of the screen door.

“Come in, darling. It’s open,” Brian’s voice called from the sitting room.

A feeling of discomfort surged through her.
Darling?
Obviously he was expecting someone else. She hurried back down the wooden steps. Feeling a little foolish but overcome by curiosity, she sidled over to the nearest tree and ducked behind it. At the sound of an approaching vehicle, she peered around the tree to see a taxi pulling up. Out of the taxi hopped Lauren, who paid the driver and then bounded up the short path to the bungalow. Then, apparently realizing someone might be watching, she slowed her pace, put one foot deliberately in front of
the other and leaned heavily on the railing, hauled herself up the steps, and knocked on the door.

Brian opened the door and, in that silly, sly way of people who want to make sure they are not being observed, looked in both directions before closing the door.

Charlotte checked her watch. They’d have a good hour before Lady Deborah might be expected home. She toyed with the idea of waiting twenty minutes or so and then calling Brian on the number he’d left but decided that little prank was too childish.

She was surprised by how his turning up after all these years was resurrecting old memories she thought were well and truly buried. She hadn’t seen him since that snowy November day in New York when he’d told her bluntly that their relationship was over.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” he’d said. “I’ve met someone else. We’re going to be married.”

Stunned into disbelief, Charlotte had asked who the woman was.

“No one you know,” Brian had replied with an apologetic smile that didn’t quite mask the pride in his voice. “Her father is an earl.”

First had come numbing shock, followed by unbearable emotional pain. They’d been together almost two years, and Charlotte loved the life they had created while they established their careers. The cozy little flat in Stratford-upon-Avon where they made love, cooked spaghetti dinners, and drank wine while they played
Scrabble late into the night. Her arm tucked through his as she rested her head on his shoulder at a midnight showing in a small art-house cinema. Strolling beside the timeless River Avon, holding hands, watching the sun come up. The excitement of opening nights and sweet sadness of strike parties, all with Brian—the up-and-coming golden boy of British theater.

Until the moment he’d actually told her they were finished, she’d had no idea he was seeing someone else. As her future collapsed, she found herself unable to board the London-bound plane with the rest of the company, and she’d decided to stay behind in New York for just another week or so while she pulled herself together. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her parents what had happened, because putting it into words would make it true, but yes, she reassured them, she’d be home for Christmas.

But she wasn’t. She spent the holiday alone in a shabby hotel room in the theater district, and on Boxing Day, she met a gay man in a coffee shop who turned out to be the dresser for a famous Hollywood actor who was appearing in a Eugene O’Neil play on Broadway. Sitting in a booth beside steamed-up windows, he’d listened to her story, hugged her, and offered to introduce her to a few friends who might be able to offer someone with her credentials a bit of contract work.

One thing had led to another, and step by step she created a life for herself in America.

Now, she took no pleasure in the fact that Brian was cheating on the woman he’d left her for. If they’ll do it with you, they’ll do it to you, as the saying goes.

Seeing what he’d become, or rather not become, she was relieved she hadn’t married him, and she realized that all these years she’d been carrying a torch not for the man she’d had but for the man she wished she’d had.