“My C.I. told me it’s a huge backyard.”
“More like an estate.”
“My point,” said Bernstein. “You’re telling me you covered every inch?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought,” said Bernstein. “Well, my job’s done. Cause of death is colchicine poisoning, whether manner is suicide or an accident is likely to remain undetermined unless you do your job and produce evidence.”
The door to the restaurant opened and Lauren Bernstein danced out, lively, light-footed, smiling. “Hi, guys.” She kissed the top of her husband’s head and rested a hand on his shoulder.
He said, “Lieutenant Sturgis is going to have another sandwich.”
Her eyes widened.
So did Milo’s. He said, “First one was great, I’ll doggie-bag and have something for later.”
“Everyone blames gluttony on their dogs,” said Bernstein. “Easy targets, they’re stupid and can’t talk back.”
“Oh, honey,” said Lauren. “Sure, Lieutenant, coming up.”
Bernstein watched her walk away, muttering “Love her,” as if pressured to admit it. Removing his glasses, he said, “Here’s something else to chew on, pun intended: Victim Chase’s time of death is between two and six hours before the body was discovered. If she ingested a heavy dose, death could’ve been relatively quick, as in within that time frame. But it can also be a drawn-out process. Nausea, vomiting, diarrhea that can go on for days and then your organ systems fail. Basically, you fall apart, it’s an unpleasant death, that’s why she had that rictus on her face. In her case, the process could’ve sped up because apart from the candy bar, which was incompletely digested, her stomach was empty. But, still, a homeless psychotic thrashing around in your backyard, you’d think the homeowner would notice.”
“The homeowner was away, in the desert.”
“Working on a melanoma?” said Bernstein. “Okay, so much for that. Anyway, this wasn’t easy for Victim Chase but she probably did it to herself, wittingly or otherwise. FDA can’t get it together to regulate herbals, all kinds of garbage finds its way in. I had a poisoned DB turn up near the court building on Hill and Washington. You know the one, spillover from downtown, not a decent restaurant in sight.”
Milo said, “Mostly warehouses.”
Bernstein said, “Whoever put a court there is a moron. One time I thought of taking a walk, waiting to be called to testify. Idiot gang types lolling around, so much for exercise. Anyone, someone thought it would be a great idea to dump a body there after hours. COD turned out to be a toxic alkaloid, which is what got me thinking about Victim Chase.”
Milo said, “The same poi—”
“Did I say that? Totally different poison. Last one before that, couple years ago, I had a fourteen-year-old girl, stupid parents pay a fortune for private school tuition and go buy her a headache remedy from a moron on Venice Beach. Turns out that particular shipment contained arsenic way above what was needed to kill their kid.”
He shook his head. “Maybe they have a dog to blame it on.”
We left Bernstein standing next to his wife, looking awestruck as she whispered in his ear.
Milo said, “One of a kind.”
I said, “Patients who don’t talk back, he can get away with it.”
He chuckled, turned serious. “What he said about her suffering. That was hard to hear.”
Fools write books about madness being an elevated mental state or an alternative form of creativity. It’s not, it’s anguish.
I said nothing and we walked to our cars.
Milo placed the second sandwich on the passenger seat. “Guess there’s nothing much more to do but concentrate on the kid. Should you choose.”
“I choose.”
“Big surprise.”
Back home I was surprised to learn that Shay McNamara had returned my call from Asheville and Robert Adjaho had phoned from London. Late, across the pond. I tried Adjaho first.
This time a man answered at the Ashanti Theatre, a voice recalling Olivier on a particularly good day.
“Doctor, this is Robert. I’m sorry to hear about Zelda, though I don’t see how I can help you. Was it suicide?”
Same question, over and over. Everyone had known.
I said, “Most likely she died accidentally.”
“From what?”
“Poison.”
“Not self-administered?”
“It looks as if she ate the wrong plant.”
“I see. Actually, I don’t.”
“She’d been mentally ill for a while, Mr. Adhajo. Ended up swallowing something she shouldn’t have.”
“Yes... the reason I mentioned suicide was back when we worked together she seemed extremely troubled. My father’s a psychologist. Don’t want to presume, but perhaps I picked up some knowledge.”
“What troubles did you observe in Zelda?”
“For starts, her fluctuating activity levels. What seemed to be hyperactivity alternating with fatigue. I’d heard my father talk about bipolar disorder — he called it manic depression — and to my layman’s eyes that seemed to fit Zelda. There were also instances where she appeared confused — in a daze. My wife and I — she was also on the show — wondered about drugs. We never saw Zelda indulge but something was clearly amiss.”
“Were people on the show talking about it?”
“If they were, Diana and I never heard it. We kept to ourselves — young love and all that. Looking back, we were pretty obnoxious about it.”
“So no rumors.”
“None that I heard. Zelda may have been odd but she never failed to do her job and that’s all that matters when you’re taping under pressure. Now I have to ask: Why would a psychologist be phoning from halfway across the globe to discuss a deceased person?”
“I’m looking for Ovid.”
“Who’s that?”
“Zelda’s son.” I gave him background.
“I understand your concern but I’m afraid I can’t help you, Doctor. I was aware Zelda had a child, though I can’t pinpoint how I knew. I never actually saw the boy.”
“She didn’t bring him to work?”
“She may have. But not that I observed.”
“Are you aware of other family members?”
“I did notice an older man who came with Zelda a few times. Old enough to be her father but with no obvious resemblance to Zelda, he looked somewhat Asian.”
“Smallish, white hair?”
“That’s the one.”
“That was her psychiatrist.”
“I see. So someone was aware of her problems. But to no avail, ay? Father always said when it came to severe mental illness one couldn’t rely on happy endings. He came to find his profession dreary, ended up switching to an administrative position with the National Health. Have you reached anyone else from the show? Perhaps someone knows more than I do.”
“I’ve talked to Steve Beal and Karen Jackson. His description of Zelda’s behavior is similar to yours.”
“Don’t know her,” said Adjaho. “But Steve, I certainly recall. How’s he doing?”
“He works in real estate.”
“Selling or developing?”
“Selling.”
“I can see that. Good for Steve. And good luck to you.”
Shay McNamara said, “Omigod, Zelda? That’s horrible, what happened?”
I replowed old ground, anticipated her next question and told her I was looking for Ovid.
She said, “Sure I remember him. She didn’t bring him often but he was a cutie. You don’t think Zelda would hurt him or anything? Because of her... situation? I mean I never saw anything like that, she seemed like a good mom.”
“When I evaluated Ovid, she was. What do you recall about him?”
“Not much, he was a quiet little kid, stayed by himself building with blocks. Zelda would come over and smile at him or give him a little kiss. She really seemed loving, Dr. Delaware.”