Sunday morning came too soon. After lying awake until two o’clock, I woke at six to the clatter of rain falling on the metal barn roof over my head. Too early to call Rita Lowe. I started coffee and killed time by listing a few things I could accomplish if I weren’t distracted by the Lowe mystery. Laundry, food shopping, and paying bills were the top three, so I stopped there. No heavy cleaning or vacuuming. Doctor’s orders.
Before tackling my mundane chores, I booted up my laptop and started an outline to organize my thoughts about Gavin Lowe’s death and what had been accomplished so far in sorting out how it had happened and who was responsible.
Right away I realized there were too many suspects. Especially if I added everyone I had doubts about to the people the police seemed most interested in. I felt guilty for leaving Quinn on my list—he might have attacked Lowe in retaliation for being sucker-punched in the conference room—but I moved him to the bottom as least likely to be guilty.
Rita Lowe might have killed her husband to put a stop to his affairs. Or a jealous mistress might have done it, as Mrs. Lowe had suggested. The jealousy angle led me to consider Glen Capshaw, but only if it turned out that his wife, Sybil Snyder, was one of Lowe’s sexual conquests. Sanjay D’Costa still seemed like a long shot. I stopped to count suspects. I was already up to five. Abel Gailworth and Melissa, six and seven, seemed to have the strongest motives.
Which suspect had the means to sneak into Quinn’s office through the secret passageway? Quinn, of course, with Sanjay a close second. In spite of Varsha’s conviction that he didn’t know about the passage, he was in and out of Quinn’s office more than anyone else except Quinn and Varsha. The Gailworths were outsiders. They wouldn’t have known about the layout of the hospital and the secret entrance to Quinn’s office. Dr. Glen Capshaw was familiar with the hospital, but I suspected he rarely visited Quinn’s office. And Rita Lowe certainly wouldn’t have known about the access.
I set my notes aside and turned my attention to breakfast. After I poured a bowl of granola, I realized I was out of milk, so I mixed in some yogurt-covered raisins and told myself it was trail mix. A cup of coffee washed it down just fine, along with my prescribed dose of pain pills. Next I dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, pulled a rain slicker over my head, and went downstairs to fill the manger with hay for the llamas’ breakfast. They were already huddled in the shelter of the barn to keep their wool dry. Rain had topped off the watering troughs, and there was no way I could rake out the catch pen or shovel llama dung. I was finished with Sunday morning chores in record time.
Back upstairs, I considered how to approach Rita Lowe. She had been the one to initiate contact with me about her husband’s death. She had given me her phone number and invited me to stay in touch. Since it was still too early to call, I hand-washed some lingerie. Finally, at ten o’clock, I called Rita’s number on my cell phone. When she answered right away, I said I hoped it wasn’t too early.
“Not at all, Miss Machado, to what do I owe this call?”
“Please call me Aimee, Mrs. Lowe. I thought we might compare notes. See if either of us had any new developments to share.”
“Oh, by all means. And you may call me Rita. Do you have something to tell me?”
“Nothing concrete, but I’ve given a lot of thought to your theory that a jealous mistress might be connected to the case. I’m sorry to bring up a painful subject, but I wondered if there was any possible way we might identify even one of the women Gavin was involved with.”
I waited for a long moment, listening while she cleared her throat several times.
“Miss Machado, did you know that Gavin’s body has not been released for burial yet?”
“No, I’m so sorry. I am being insensitive. I probably shouldn’t have called, but you did say to keep in touch.”
“Yes, you’re right. I did.
“Were you told why the—his—body is being held?”
“They were circumspect, but I was asked to volunteer specimens of my DNA, so I suppose it’s a forensics issue.”
Good. Just the opening I had hoped for.
“Was there any mention of what the forensics crew might have found?”
“They didn’t say, but I volunteered a cheek swab and allowed them to take samples of my hair. Seems silly to me. He’s—was—my husband, so finding my DNA on his body or his clothing is to be expected.”
“Yes. Of course it is.” But depending on what the medical examiner found, or where it was found, Rita Lowe might still have trouble explaining it. I guided her back to the subject of her husband’s other women.
“Mrs. Lowe, it might help if you could think of any woman your husband may have been seeing.”
Her heavy sigh signaled reluctance to continue. I gave her a moment, which paid off.
“Someone he worked with,” she said. “As I told you, I made an effort not to know about his women, but there were signs.”
My antennae started tingling. “What kind of signs?”
“The way he behaved around certain female colleagues, one in particular. When he was around her, and I was with him, he was exceedingly attentive toward me, almost absurdly so. In gambling I believe that’s what they call a ‘tell,’ isn’t it?”
Was it a tell? A way to cover up an affair? Or just a man concerned for his wife’s feelings? “Are you implying that you have a specific woman in mind?”
“I’m afraid so, but you must understand that I could be wrong. I have no proof, and I certainly don’t want to falsely accuse anyone of killing Gavin.” She sounded sincere, but then again, what else would a respectable woman say?
“I understand, Rita. I would feel the same. It’s just that you and I know we’re innocent. Maybe the police should know about this other woman.”
“It’s not the kind of thing I could take to the police. They would only hear the sordid details of an unfaithful husband. They’d either pity me or worse—joke about it behind my back.”
I’d almost given up on coaxing a name out of her when she startled me by spitting it out.
“Sybil Snyder,” she said. “Gavin used to go all nervous if she was around us when we were together.”
Jackpot.
I ended my conversation with Rita Lowe as soon as possible, after assuring her I would keep confidential what she had told me. I wondered if she really meant it, or if she hoped I’d find a way to cast suspicion on Sybil Snyder. Anything was possible, but I was more inclined to take a closer look at Snyder’s husband, Glen Capshaw. I did not tell Rita about the conversation between Snyder and an angry and jealous Capshaw that Harry and I had overheard in the stairwell at TMC a week earlier. I wanted to keep that to myself and brainstorm this new wrinkle about Dr. Snyder with Cleo, Harry, and Nick.
The morning was gone and the rain had stopped, so I decided to drive to Timbergate and see what I could find out about Natasha Korba’s medical status. I was torn between wishing her a quick, complete recovery and hoping she could be kept hospitalized until after the custody hearing on Wednesday afternoon, just three days away. I would feel a lot better about the little girl’s future if before she was discharged, Lowe’s killer was caught and Abel and Melissa Gailworth were cleared.
I took the elevator to Natasha’s room in the Pediatric Unit on the second floor. A glance at my watch told me it was one thirty. Lunch would be over, so Abel Gailworth wouldn’t be making a fuss about Natasha’s food.
I walked toward the little girl’s private room until I was close enough to see that her door was closed. Muffled voices from inside, at least one of them male, told me she had visitors. Not good. My looking in on Natasha—a child celebrity in a private room—would seem odd to her family, even inappropriate. I could think of no way to justify my interest in her medical progress. Simple curiosity would not do.
As I stood outside the door to her room considering what to do, the volume of the voices inside escalated until I heard that of a woman—Melissa Gailworth.
“Abel … Hector, can’t you see you’re upsetting Natasha? If you must argue, please go somewhere else, or I’ll ring for the nurse.”
Good for her, I thought. Maybe Natasha’s mother has a spine after all.
The door burst open and both men stormed out and strode down the corridor, too angry with each other to notice me. I watched Korba stalk toward the elevators, Gailworth following after, saying, “You’ll never get her away from us.” As the elevator closed on Korba, it cut off part of his answering volley. “I’ll see you in hell—”
Gailworth stood glaring at the elevator door, apparently undecided about whether to go back to his wife and stepdaughter or to give himself time to calm down. To avoid being noticed, I turned away and walked toward the nurses’ station. I spotted Sybil Snyder coming toward me from the other direction. She wasn’t a pediatrician, and it was only at Korba’s request that she had taken over Natasha’s care. I assumed that the only patient she could be visiting in the Peds Unit was Natasha. I had managed to avoid being seen by Korba or Gailworth, but there was no hiding from Dr. Snyder. She reached the nurses’ station just as I did.
“Aimee, what brings you here?” she asked. “Do you have a relative in the unit?”
It surprised me how quickly I came up with a lie. “No, I’m not here to visit a patient. I’m working on a project for the library. I hoped to interview the Pediatric Unit nurses to see if there’s a way to provide children’s books for our young patients while they’re hospitalized.” After I said it, I realized it was only a lie if I didn’t actually follow up on the idea.
“On a Sunday afternoon?” Snyder asked. “You’re certainly dedicated to your job.”
I bristled. “But you’re here on a Sunday afternoon, too, Dr. Snyder.”
“Touché, Aimee. I didn’t mean to imply that your job is workaday.”
“I’m sure you didn’t, Dr. Snyder. No offense taken.”
Snyder nodded, then asked the nurse at the desk for Natasha’s chart and walked toward the girl’s room. I turned to the nurse and began ad-libbing about my project involving reading material for the Peds Unit. Sometimes great ideas are born of desperation.
When that conversation came to a standstill, I asked how Natasha was doing. “I know you can’t tell me anything specific, but someone told me Natasha might go home soon.”
“Sorry, I can’t say.” The nurse leaned toward me then, in a confidential posture. “That’s up to Dr. Snyder, but between you and me, I don’t envy that kid, no matter who she goes home with.”
As I was about to leave, Sybil Snyder returned with Natasha’s chart. I loitered for a moment, hoping to overhear something she might say about her patient, but her comments were unrevealing.
“Let’s keep the same protocol going for now,” she said. “I’ll dictate my notes right away.”
No help there. Except it did tell me that Natasha was no worse, and that whatever treatment regimen she was on was working.
Rita Lowe’s suspicion that Sybil Snyder was one of Gavin Lowe’s lovers prompted me to follow Snyder down the corridor to the elevator, as if I just happened to be going her way.