Timmie slammed down the rest of her coffee, hoping for a miracle of coherence, and sighed. "Together. I'm not in a careful interrogation kind of mood."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Does that mean you'd like me to drive?"
"Since Bobby's Garage is still picking soybeans out of my transmission, and I don't want to drive a Lexus, yes."
Murphy didn't say anything. He just walked into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of acetaminophen. "Here."
Timmie tried not to laugh. "Shut up."
She took the medicine. Then she grabbed the list of surviving family members Barb had handed off the night before like the plans for a nuclear sub and walked out the door.
There were ten names on the list. Timmie decided on the places to go and Murphy asked the questions. Nonthreatening general information on care given, benefits derived, family's reaction to the patient's disease, deterioration, and death.
They stuck to that plan of attack at the first three homes and learned nothing. The children and spouses of Mr. DiSalvo, Mrs. Frieberger, and Mrs. Rogers, respectively, were saddened by the deaths, but not surprised. Relieved, a few admitted, considering what their loved ones had gone through. Getting on with life, eternally grateful to Restcrest, Dr. Raymond, and Memorial Medical Center for everything they'd done for the person in question. Not one mentioned Joe Leary because Timmie had introduced herself as Annie Parker, which kept the interviews properly focused. Not one had offered any surprises, either.
Limping up the steps to the fourth door, Timmie asked Murphy to let her try her hand at the questions. She was feeling a bit more alert, and with it, a bit more patient.
Their target here was Mr. Charlie Cleveland, son of Wilhelm "Butch" Cleveland, seventy-eight, who had died of cardiac arrest the morning Billy Mayfield had come in. Mr. Cleveland lived in a nice neighborhood of two-story brick bungalows with mature trees and carefully pruned hedges. Lots of effort, little imagination. Butch had lived with him and his wife, Betty, until admission to Restcrest two years before his death.
As she waited for Mr. Cleveland to answer the bell, Timmie wondered what the poor man would think when he opened the door to catch a pair of bruised, battered creatures waiting to ask him about his father.
It was nothing to what Timmie thought when the man finally opened the door on the second ring. But Murphy said it first. "Oh, my God."
Mr. Cleveland just stood there, morning paper still clasped in his hand, a finger tucked into the page he'd been reading. He was wearing half reading glasses on a chain around his neck and a carefully pressed cotton shirt and slacks. A handsome man with dignified wings of gray hair and a ruddy complexion.
His complexion this morning was pale, though, his eyes wide. Stricken was the word that came to mind. Timmie knew how he felt.
"Mr. Cleveland," she greeted the man who had tried to shoot Alex Raymond at the horse show. "Can we talk to you?"
Chapter 17
Murphy expected just about any reaction but the one they got.
"Well, it's about time," Mr. Cleveland said. Then he laughed and shook his head. "Listen to me. I'm about to be taken in on attempted manslaughter charges, and I'm saying it's about time. Well, it is. I've been sitting in this living room for two weeks waiting for that doorbell to ring."
He looked nice. Nice. Now there was a word Murphy hadn't thought to use in connection with that guy with the gun. Standing here in his own doorway, though, Mr. Cleveland looked as if he belonged right here, reading his morning paper in his boring, predictable living room, not in a police lineup. But Murphy had done enough of these interviews to know just how many people in police lineups looked just the same.
"We're not the police," Murphy assured him. "We're from the paper. My name is Daniel Murphy, and this is—"
"Annie Parker," Leary interjected, just like the other three times. And damn if she didn't look more like Annie Parker than Timmie Leary, her short hair curled and her usual tights and long sweaters traded in for tailored blouse, vest, and slacks. "We wanted to ask you about Restcrest, if you don't mind."
They couldn't seem to surprise the guy. "Of course you do," he said. Carefully folding his paper out of the way, he pushed open the door.
As Murphy stepped in, he catalogued the house. Not much more imagination inside than outside. Solid pastel furniture, beige rugs and curtains, walls decorated in stiff family portraits and framed pastoral prints. The smell of Pine Sol, old coffee, and pipe tobacco. All well cared for, all showing wear and tear, as if the budget had been stretched to the limit a long time ago.
Mr. Cleveland led them both to the light-blue floral couch and reclaimed his easy chair across from the television.
"You want to know why I tried to shoot Dr. Raymond."
Murphy saw Leary actually flinch at the statement. He didn't know whether to feel sorry for her or satisfied. At least one of the questions had been answered.
"Excuse me for asking," Leary said, leaning forward. "But haven't the police been here already?"
"Nope. Not a soul. Except for the Adkins boy, of course, but he didn't come on official business. Heard Father had been in and was thinking about having to do the same for his mother. Wanted my opinions." Mr. Cleveland smiled. "I tried to tell him what I'd done, but he just wasn't interested. Typical of the boy. Always has had a one-track mind. He does so love being a policeman. Makes a lot of noise when he moves."
Present tense. Probably not the time to fill him in.
"Nobody else, though," Leary said, nudging him back on track.
A quick, decisive shake of the head. "And you'd certainly think they would have figured it out by now. It's not like I'm a complete stranger. Father played bridge with Chief Bridges's father every Tuesday for twenty years."
Which neatly explained the "keep-it-in-the-family" angle. Obviously the chief had figured that if Mr. Cleveland wasn't going to say anything, neither was the police chief, who probably knew perfectly well what had become of Mr. Cleveland's father.
"Have you talked to anybody about it?" Murphy asked.
"Just my minister. Told him how stupid I felt after it happened. Never tried anything like that before. Don't know what came over me then."
Leary gently forced the issue. "Your father..."
Cleveland's features clouded over. He seemed to deflate a little, as if the truth would take the stuffing out of him. "Was very sick," he said quietly. "For a very long time."
Leary's voice got as soft as his. "I know," she said. "My father's in Restcrest."
Cleveland exchanged a quick smile of empathy with her that betrayed what the two of them shared. What Murphy knew nothing about. He wisely kept his mouth shut and let Leary take the lead.
"Then you know," Mr. Cleveland said.
Leary just nodded.
Cleveland sighed. "Father was an exceptional man. He fought in three wars, earned the Distinguished Service Medal and the devotion of the entire Marine Corps. He raised me on Plato and Aquinas and Rousseau. By the time he died, he was incoherent."
"You weren't surprised by his death," Leary said quietly, her posture folded forward. A picture of sincere interest, concern, understanding. She sat as still as a mirror, which amazed Murphy. He'd never seen her this subdued before.