Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

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      “No.”

      “Dr. Decameron seemed sure that his children asked him for money. Where did he get his information from?”

      “I don’t know where Reggie digs up his gossip.”

      “His son Paul called Dr. Sparks tonight,” Marge said. “Is that correct?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do you know what it was about?”

      “No.”

      “Did Dr. Sparks say he was cutting the meeting short to meet his son?”

      “No. He didn’t say anything.”

      “Did his kids call him often?”

      “I didn’t monitor his calls. Ask Heather.”

      “From your perception, Doctor,” Oliver said. “Did they call him often?”

      “I can’t tell you yes or no because I don’t know how you’re defining often. Yes, they called him. Yes, his wife, Dolly, called him, too.”

      “In the middle of meetings?”

      “Sometimes. And if they did, the doctor usually interrupted himself to take their calls. He loved his family. And they loved him.”

      Marge said, “Did his wife or any of them ever visit Dr. Sparks at work in the hospital?”

      Oliver said, “Maybe they’d drop in to say hello or have a cup of coffee with Dad?”

      “You don’t drop in on someone like Dr. Sparks.”

      “Did you ever meet his wife and children?”

      “Occasionally, I would see one of his kids visiting with him at the hospital.”

      “What about his wife?”

      Liz thought a moment. “She’d come to the holiday parties.”

      “What’s she like?” Marge asked.

      “Reserved, religious like him. But very, very proud of her husband and family. Beams when she talks about them. An old-fashioned woman. Her family is her life.”

      Oliver said, “And you observed all this by her presence at a Christmas party?”

      Liz shook her head no. “Once Azor was gracious enough to invite us to the house for Sunday dinner. Dolly … Mrs. Sparks must have spent most of the time in the kitchen, serving the food, happy to do it … to play hostess. We told her to sit, but she just laughed. Said she only sat for dinner on her birthday. What a feast! A mound of food. All of Azor’s children and grandchildren were there. Sunday was a big day in his life. Like I said, Azor was very religious.”

      “And everyone seemed to get along.”

      “To my eye, yes.”

      “No tensions?” Marge asked.

      “Not when I was there.” Fulton rubbed her eyes. “My husband and I used to joke they were a Norman Rockwell poster from a bygone era. Especially when you compared them to us—” She stopped talking.

      “Compared to you, how?” Marge pressed.

      “My personal life isn’t relevant.”

      As if on cue, a rumbling motor belched loudly then suddenly stopped, leaving in its wake an uneasy silence. The door opened and a man stumbled in—long-limbed and skinny! A marionette of bones wearing a leather vest, torn jeans, and scarred black leather boots. His facial features were hidden behind several days of beard growth, unruly blond curls of hair hovering around his shoulder blades. He was sweating Scotch … could smell it as soon as he came flying past the doorpost. He looked at his wife, looked at the company with bleary eyes.

      “What’s goin’ on?”

      Fulton’s face had become red, a portrait of anger. “I’m going back to the hospital, Drew. An emergency.” Her eyes filled with tears.

      Drew looked confused. “Huh? What time is it?”

      “A quarter past one.”

      “Why’re you goin’ to the hospital?”

      “Because Dr. Sparks has been murdered—”

       “What?”

      “The hospital needs help, Drew. I have to go. Excuse me.” Covering her face, Fulton flew out of the room.

      “Mur …” Drew was dazed, slumped in the pine rocker and looked at Oliver. “No shit?”

      “No shit.”

      “God … that’s …” Drew scratched his cheek, rubbed watery blue eyes floating in seas of pink. “Think she’ll lose her job?”

      Marge stared at him. “I don’t know.”

      “What happened?”

      Oliver walked over to the door and opened it. Anything to air the place out. Maybe the jerk would take the hint and leave. He didn’t. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

      “You’re the police?”

      “Yes.”

      “God, this is serious stuff, huh.”

      Marge asked, “What’s your full name, sir?”

      “My name?”

      “Yes, your name.”

      “Drew McFadden. I’m not under suspicion or anything.”

      Marge and Oliver traded looks. Oliver walked over to him, leaned against the bay, looked down on Drew. “Why do you think you’re under suspicion?”

      Drew looked up, puzzled, had no answer. “Is Liz under suspicion?”

      “Should she be?” Marge asked.

      “I don’t think so.” Drew laughed. “But I don’t know much.”

      A good insight, Marge thought. “She and her boss were close?”

      “Real close. I often—” He stopped talking. His wife had returned. She had changed into a white shirt, black pants, and a white lab coat, ID tag with her name and picture resting on its lapel. To the police, she said, “If you need any further information, I’ll be at the hospital.” She glanced at her husband. “Henry’s bottle is in the fridge. In case I don’t get back, Marta is due in at seven.”

      “I’ll take care of it, Liz.”

      “Right.”

      “That’s too СКАЧАТЬ