Nearly gave myself a heart attack over nothing, he thought as he rinsed his glass and dried it. He polished it with a soft cloth until long after it was dry, then he went reluctantly to bed.
CHAPTER 3
In the morning he got to within two blocks of the office before accepting that it was quite impossible for him to go in. Appalled by his own irrationality, he made a right turn at the next set of lights and aimed the car south. Whiteford was ablaze with sunlit familiarity, glowing with that aura of humdrum comfort, security and sanity which is special to small towns on summer mornings. People were abroad early, getting business done before the day’s heat set in. Jerome knew that in the reporters’ room at the Examiner the daily routine would be well under way, with Anne Kruger and her Castilian eyes absorbing every detail, especially the yawning emptiness at his desk. And what reason could he give her for his absence?
Well…you see, Anne…there was this funny looking pillbox…
Jerome squirmed with embarrassment as he visualized the editor’s reaction, but he continued driving towards the Starzynski house. The notion that SHC victims were linked by a medicine which radically affected their metabolisms was far-fetched on its own, and it was compounded in lunacy by the idea that in a matter of hours he could have hit on a truth which had eluded other investigators for centuries. But it was lodged in his mind like a fishhook, and the only way to free himself from the obsession was to check it out—even if he had to make a fool of himself in the process.
And that’s exactly what I’m doing, he thought as he pulled up outside the neat house atop its buttresses of blossom and stone. He sat for a moment as he tried to dissociate himself from the venture and then, feeling hag-ridden, got out of the car. The concrete steps seemed more steep than before and he was breathing noisily as he thumbed the doorbell. There was a delay of perhaps a minute before Maeve Starzynski appeared. She was wearing a flowered housecoat and her round face bore the uncertain expression of one who has just emerged from a long sleep.
“Oh,” she said. And then, anticipating his apology, “No, it’s all right—please come in.”
“Thank you.” Jerome went in and waited in the hall while she closed the door. More than a year of being a widower had heightened his sensitivity to such things, and in close proximity to the woman he found he could actually detect the smell of sleep from her. It was an evocative blend of warm bed linen, facial cream and light clean perspiration which made him realize how much he hated living alone. For one thing, with Carla around there would have been no midnight vigils at the computer…
“I took a sleeping pill last night and I guess it must have been a good one,” Maeve said. “I don’t much care for anything like that, but my doctor advised it.”
Jerome nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry about just showing up on your doorstep—it’s a habit I seem to be getting into—but…well…I need some extra information.”
“What is it?”
“I was wondering…” Jerome strove to overcome his embarrassment. “Can you tell me if your father was taking any medication?”
“Yes.” She gave him a quizzical look, went into the kitchen and returned with a bubble-strip of yellow capsules. “ColophazineD. I don’t know what kind of drug this is, but my father was prescribed it for abdominal pains.”
Jerome’s discomfort increased. “That’s not what I meant. Did your father use any pills that are packaged in a little heart-shaped box?”
Maeve smiled, openly incredulous. “From ye olde apothecary? Of course not.”
“I know how ridiculous all this sounds and I promise to go away and stop being a nuisance as soon as possible—but what did he keep in the box?”
“Which box?”
Jerome blinked at her. “The little violet one. I saw it on a shelf in there.” He indicated the closed door of the sitting room.
“I don’t remember seeing him with anything like that,” Maeve said calmly.
“But…” Jerome felt a strong urge to escape from the house, but now the obstinate side of his character was coming to the fore. “I definitely saw it on a shelf, along with some fossils, binoculars and foreign coins. I’ve got a very good memory for that sort of thing.”
“I’ve got a terrible memory for that kind of thing, so why don’t we just have a look-see?” Maeve gave a tight smile and opened the door to the sitting room, which looked exactly as he had seen it last time except that the square of hardboard had been replaced over the hole in the floor. “I don’t want to use this room again until the floor is fixed, and I’m not allowed to get it done until the coroner’s office says.”
“I understand.” Jerome went past her and walked straight to the bookshelf where he had seen the unusual box. All the other items he remembered were in place, but of the heart-shaped box there was no sign. He scanned the rest of the room then turned to look at Maeve, who was regarding him with watchful interest.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she protested humorously. “I haven’t hidden anything.”
Jerome could think of no reason for her to lie. “I don’t understand this. Has anybody else been in the room?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m certain. I don’t get so many callers that I lose track of them.”
“It doesn’t add up,” Jerome said, his bafflement increasing. “The box was sitting right here yesterday.”
He went on to give a detailed description of the missing object, and when asked to explain his interest reluctantly outlined the theory about the common factor in SHC incidents. He did so in a self-deprecating manner which was intended to ward off criticism, but to his own ears the theory sounded ludicrous in the extreme. The British word “barmy’ kept flickering in his mind as he spoke, making his delivery increasingly hesitant. There were further distractions in the form of Maeve’s polite incredulity and his niggling annoyance over the fate of the little box. He knew he had seen it, and yet he was almost positive that Maeve was not lying to him—which constituted a minor mystery as insoluble as the central issue of the fire death. His cue to leave came when he saw she was finding it difficult to suppress a yawn.
“I’d better go,” he said, wishing he could have made a full search of the room.
Maeve was apologetic. “I’m not usually as droopy as this, but the pill I took last night seems to…” She paused, looking surprised. “I’ve just remembered something.”
“About the box?”
“No—it’s just that Doctor Pitman was here yesterday afternoon. I’d forgotten about it, but then I don’t class him as a visitor.”
Jerome felt a furtive excitement. Was he your father’s physician?”
“Yes, but…”
“Did he come into this room?”
“Yes, but he isn’t a thief, if that’s what you’re trying to imply.”
“I’m not implying anything,” Jerome said placatingly. “Listen, Maeve—I hope you don’t mind me addressing you as Maeve—I know how weak this idea about medication is, but if we’re ever going to find out what happened to your father we’ve got to check out all theories, even if it’s only to eliminate them one by one. Now, do you know where I can find Doctor Pitman?”