Midmorning Thursday, I received a call from Fran telling me to come down to the circulation desk because Angela had stopped by! She wasn’t scheduled to return to work until the weekend, but it turned out she couldn’t stay away from her besties at the library. In fact, Angela had been so eager to get home, they’d changed their flight to an earlier one and took a redeye home.
I hurried to join the throng around the circulation desk where Angela was holding court talking about her honeymoon and gave her a hug. She looked well-rested, deliriously happy, and had a glorious tan.
“Free for lunch at noon?” she whispered.
“Of course.”
“Good. Need to talk.”
At twelve sharp we met at our usual spot—the door leading to the library parking lot.
“Any place in particular?” I asked as we walked to my car.
“The Indian restaurant would be nice.”
We climbed inside and I drove out of the lot. “So, how does it feel to be an old married woman?”
“I love it. Waking up next to Steve every morning, knowing I’ll see him later in the day.”
I glanced over, saw her solemn expression. “But?”
“But we have to find out who murdered Aiden. I’m worried about my parents. I’ve never seen them so upset, praying that no one in our family is responsible. My brother’s staying with them and driving them nuts. Every time he’s questioned at the police station, he comes back to the house raging like a maniac.” Angela shuddered. “I’m so glad I’m not living there any longer.”
I drove slowly toward Mercer Street, where the Indian restaurant was located. “Your mother asked me to investigate, but so far I haven’t been able to find out much. Donna invited me to lunch. She swears up and down that she didn’t kill her husband, but she can’t say the same about Roxy. Or your brother.”
Angela snickered. “That’s Donna for you. I’m not saying she poisoned Aiden, but she’s been known to lie and blame others when it serves her purpose. Her interpretation of ‘a woman’s prerogative.’
“As for my brother—my mother paid John Mathers a visit at the precinct to tell him what an upstanding citizen her son is. You know what John told her? That Tommy was hauled in twice in the past eighteen months for assaulting crew members working on his movie and that a director he’d fired had accused Tommy of putting a laxative in his drink, though it was never proven that my dear brother was responsible.”
I was pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot when Angela added, “We’re all worried about Roxy. Aiden’s death seems to have unraveled her. She sobbed continuously at his funeral. My uncle has tried to get her to see a shrink, but she refuses.”
“Tomorrow is Aiden’s memorial,” I said as I clicked off the motor. “Let’s both speak to as many people as we can and compare notes afterwards.”
“Good idea.” Angela squeezed my arm. “I’m glad to finally be taking an active role in one of your investigations. I only wish most of the suspects weren’t my relatives.”
We walked to the restaurant’s back entrance. “There are plenty of other possibilities—Aiden’s coworkers. A disgruntled patient.” I pulled open the door and was greeted by tantalizing aromas. “Now let’s enjoy our lunch while you tell me more about your new life as Angela Prisco.”
That evening, I decided to do some computer research in preparation for Aiden’s memorial the following afternoon. I started with the website for Clover Ridge General Surgeons, Aiden’s medical practice. There was a definition of what general surgery consisted of—surgery of the abdominal cavity including the esophagus, stomach, small and large intestines, liver, pancreas. The list went on to include colonoscopies and other procedures. Next appeared photos of Aiden and Nick Gannon’s smiling faces and, beneath them, the photos of two nurse practitioners, neither of whom I’d met, and one of Nurse Gwen Swithers. Finally, there was a photo of Vera Ghent, looking considerably younger and thinner.
I clicked on Aiden’s photo and was taken to his medical background: he had attended an Ivy League medical school and did his residency at an excellent Manhattan hospital. Aiden had his ABS board certification and a fellowship in the American College of Surgeons. His specialties were esophageal and stomach surgeries and those in the small and large intestines as well as robotic surgery.
Next, I checked out Aiden’s ratings by his patients. He had four stars out of five. Seven patients gave him a five-star rating. An eighth patient gave him one star, complaining that he had to wait hours before his scheduled surgery, something I knew was out of a doctor’s control. I jotted down the man’s name: Marcus Zilliag.
Nick’s background was less impressive. He had attended medical school in Mexico and done his residency in a hospital out west. His specialties were hernia repair, appendectomies, and gallstones. His twelve reviews were mostly threes and fours, with three ones, none of which gave any explanation for the low rating. Interesting. From what I could see, Nick’s status had improved when he’d taken Aiden on as his partner. Now I was curious to check out Aiden’s home computer and find out what had kept him so busy the evenings before he died.
Aiden’s Facebook page was filled with photos of him, Donna, and the kids. I went back six months. There were several of him and Donna, Roxy, and Miles—skiing and some on a cruise ship. Interesting to learn that the two couples had often vacationed together.
The only information Marcus Zilliag’s Facebook page had to offer was that he was a machinist, divorced, and lived outside of Clover Ridge. Judging from the one photo he’d posted of himself with his dog, he was slight, balding, and in his early fifties. There were several photos of his German shepherd named Duke.
My cell phone jingled at nine thirty as I was about to jump into the shower. It was Michelle, bubbling over with joy.
“Carrie, I just got off the phone with my father!”
“I’m so glad he called you.”
“We had a long talk. Dad said he’d been wanting to contact Harvey and me for years but was afraid we wouldn’t want to hear from him after he’d abandoned us.”
“Really?” I didn’t mean to sound as sarcastic as it came out, but Michelle was too excited to notice.
“Yes, and he wants to make up for it. He’s going to come visit soon, but meanwhile he’s sending me a check to cover two months’ rent and enough so I can buy a secondhand car to get to work.”
“I am so glad, Michelle. You deserve a break.”
“I told him about my brother’s condition, and he’s going to see to it that Harvey gets into a rehab facility.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s all thanks to you, Carrie. I was feeling so down, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t helped me.”
“I’m glad it worked out, Michelle. Please let me know when your father comes to Clover Ridge. I’d like to meet him.”
“I certainly will! Thanks again. You’ve made a tremendous difference in my life.”
I spent most of Friday morning interviewing the two people who had called me about presenting a program at the library. Annette Phillips was a woman in her forties who had a service animal—a golden retriever she brought to hospitals and senior residents—that she wanted to include in her presentation along with a blind friend and her seeing-eye dog. She spoke enthusiastically about her subject—how animals help us lead better lives—including facts and figures to back up her premise. I told her I was definitely interested and gave her the forms to fill out to return to me ASAP.
The next potential presenter was an older gentleman who was eager to discuss and show slides of his gastronomical trip through France. He was well spoken and enthusiastic about his subject. He showed me photos of two restaurants and meals he wanted to talk about and regaled me with an amusing anecdote about each dinner. As with Annette, I said yes on the spot, adding that we were starting work on the library extension in a few months and I wasn’t sure how that would be affecting fall and winter programs.
That accomplished, I ventured to call a local theatrical company that had an excellent reputation for putting on plays in libraries. I explained to the young woman who took my call that our library would have a stage in the near future and I was eager to find out what if any suggestions or requirements we should include if we planned to put on theatrical productions. We got into a discussion of lighting and sound systems, and she promised to send me a packet of information that included their current repertoire.
At one fifteen, I fed Smoky Joe and reminded Trish that she’d agreed to keep an eye on him while I had a quick lunch, then attended the memorial service for Aiden. Not that Trish needed reminding. Her mind was like a computer and she was efficient at multitasking. I’d already asked Susan to check on him occasionally when she came to work earlier than usual. I needed to talk to as many people as I could at the memorial service and wasn’t sure when I’d be returning to the library.
The Cozy Corner Café was busy, so I ordered a sandwich and iced tea to go and ate it sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the rear. Then I set out for Aiden’s memorial service in Town Hall, only a few blocks away.
As I stopped in the ladies’ room to freshen up, my thoughts flashed back to another memorial service which had been held here in October for a retired police lieutenant who had been murdered while investigating a cold case. I’d helped flush out the murderer and came close to becoming a victim myself.
I nodded to a group of elegantly dressed women chatting in quiet tones in the hall. Friends of Donna’s, I thought. Or possibly Aiden’s patients. I pulled open one of the doors leading to the large meeting room. About a dozen people sat scattered around the room but no one looked familiar. Perhaps family members had gathered in another room to wait until the service began.
I walked down the aisle and took a seat about seven rows from the front. Farther along the row, a woman sat hunched over her knees, her face in her hands. She gave a start when she realized she was no longer alone. I recognized Gwen Swithers, the nurse who worked in Aiden’s office.
“Hello, Gwen.”
Gwen blinked, not remembering who I was.
“Carrie Singleton. I met you at the wake last week. I’m a friend of Donna’s cousin, Angela.”
“Oh, yes.” She blinked, this time in an attempt to hold back the tears that were spilling down her cheeks.
I reached in my pocketbook for a tissue and handed it to her. Gwen moved closer to me and dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you. I’m sorry for being so emotional.”
“I’m sure it’s very difficult for you—losing someone you worked with every day.”
“Very difficult. Aiden meant the world to me.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I mean,” she quickly explained, “I’m from Ohio and I don’t have any real friends here in Clover Ridge. Aiden was always helpful and supportive.” She blew her nose. “I miss him so much.”
“I know what it’s like to move to a new place where you hardly know anyone,” I said.
“To think that someone hated him enough to poison him.”
I reached over to take her hand. “Gwen, I’m sorry for your pain. Would you like to meet for coffee and talk?”
She nodded. I fished in my pocketbook for one of my new business cards I’d had made up. “Feel free to call me on my cell phone.”
We both looked up as a large group of people entered the room through a side door at the front of the room. I spotted Angela and Steve, Angela’s parents, Donna and her parents, and Donna’s sister Frankie.
I stood. “I’m going to pay my respects to the family. I’ll be back.”
As I headed down the aisle, I turned around. Gwen was gone.