Harvest (18 page)

The sandwich platter had made its round and now came back, empty, to Abby. "I'll refill it," she said to Marllee, and she rose from the couch and went into the kitchen. There she found the marble countertops covered with platters of food. No one would go hungry today. She was unwrapping a tray of shrimp when she looked out the kitchen window and noticed Archer, Rajiv Mohandas, and Frank Zwick standing outside on the flagstone terrace.They were talking, shaking their heads. Leave it to the men to retreat, she thought. Men had no patience for grieving widows or long silences; they left that ordeal to their wives in the house.They'd even brought a bottle of scotch outside with them. It sat on the umbrella table, positioned for easy refills. Zwick reached around for the bottle and poured a splash into his glass. As he recapped the bottle, he caught sight of Abby. He said something to Archer. Now Archer and Mohandas were looking at her as well. They all nodded and gave a quick wave. Then the three men crossed the terrace and walked away, into the garden.

"So much food. I don't know what I'm going to do with all of it," said Elaine. Abby hadn't noticed that she had come into the kitchen. Elaine stood gazing at the countertop and shaking her head. "I told the caterer forty people, and this is what she brings me. It's not like a wedding. Everyone eats at a wedding. But no one eats much after a funeral." Elaine looked down at one of the trays and picked up a radish, carved into a tiny rosette. "Isn't it pretty, how they do it? So much work for something you just put in your mouth." She set it back down again and stood there, not talking, admiring in silence that radish rosette.

"I'm so sorry, Elaine," said Abby. "If only there was something I could say to make it easier."

"I just wish I could understand. He never said anything. Never told me he . . ." She swallowed and shook her head. She carried the platter of food to the refrigerator, slid it onto a shelf, and shut the door. Turning, she looked at Abby. "You spoke to him that night. Was there anything you talked about - anything he might have said . . ."

"We discussed one of our patients. Aaron wanted to make sure I was doing all the right things."

"That's all you talked about?"

"Just the patient. Aaron didn't seem any different to me. Just concerned. Elaine, I never imagined he would..." Abby fell silent.

Elaine's gaze drifted to another platter. To the garnish of green onions, the leaves slitted and curled into lacy puffs. "Did you ever hear anything about Aaron that... you wouldn't want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were there ever rumours about other women?"

"Never." Abby shook her head. And said again, with more emphasis, "Never."

Elaine nodded, but seemed to take little comfort from Abby's reassurance. "I never really thought it was a woman," she said. She picked up another tray and carried it to the refrigerator. When she'd closed the door she said, "My mother-in-law blames me. She thinks it must be something I did. A lot of people must be wondering."

"No one makes another person commit suicide."

"There was no warning. Nothing at all. Oh, I know he wasn't happy about his job. He kept talking about leaving Boston. Or quitting medicine entirely."

"Why was he so unhappy?"

"He wouldn't talk about it. When he had his own practice in Natick, we'd talk about his work all the time. Then the offer came in from Bayside, and it was too good to refuse. But after we moved here, it was as if I didn't know him any more. He'd come home and sit down like a zombie in front of that damn computer. Playing video games all evening. Sometimes, late at night, I'd wake up and hear those weird beeps and clicks. And it was Aaron, sitting up all alone, playing some game." She shook her head and stared down at the countertop. At yet another platter of untouched food. "You're one of the last people who spoke to him. Isn't there anything you remember?"

Abby gazed out the kitchen window, trying to piece together that last conversation with Aaron. She could think of nothing to distinguish it from any other late-night phone call. They all seemed to blur together, a chorus of monotonous voices demanding action from her tired brain.

Outside, the three men were returning from their garden walk. She watched them cross the terrace to the kitchen door. Zwick was carrying the bottle of scotch, now half-empty. They entered the house and nodded to her in greeting.

"Nice little garden," said Archer. "You should go out and take a tour, Abby."

"I'd like to," she said. "Elaine, maybe you'd come out and show me..." She paused.

There was no one standing by the refrigerator. She glanced around the kitchen, saw the platters of food on the counter and an open carton of plastic wrap, a glassy sheet hanging out and fluttering in the air.

Elaine had left the room.

A woman was praying by Mary Allen's bed. She had been sitting there for the last half-hour, head bowed, hands clasped together as she murmured aloud to the good Lord Jesus, imploring him to rain down miracles upon the mortal shell of Mary Allen. Heal her, strengthen her, purify her body and her unclean soul so that she might finally accept His word in all its glory.

"Excuse me," said Abby. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I need to examine Mrs Allen."

The woman kept praying. Perhaps she had not heard her. Abby was about to repeat the request, when the woman at last said, "Amen," and raised her head. She had unsmiling eyes and dull brown hair with the first streaks of grey. She regarded Abby with a look of irritation.

"I'm Dr. DiMatteo," said Abby. "I'm taking care of Mrs Allen."

"So am I," the woman said, rising to her feet. She made no attempt to shake hands with Abby, but stood with arms cradling the Bible to her chest. "I'm Brenda Hainey. Mary's niece."

"I didn't know Mary had a niece. I'm glad you're able to visit."

"I only heard about her illness two days ago. No one bothered to call me." Her tone of voice implied that this oversight was somehow Abby's fault.

"We were under the impression Mary had no close relatives."

"I don't know why. But I'm here now." Brenda looked at her aunt. "And she'll be fine."

Except for the fact she's dying, thought Abby. She moved to the bedside and said softly: "Mrs Allen?"

Mary opened her eyes. "I'm awake, Dr. D. Just resting."

"How are you feeling today?" ' Still nauseated."

"It could be a side effect of the morphine. We'll give you something to settle your stomach."

Brenda interjected: "She's getting morphine?"

"For the pain."

"Aren't there other ways to relieve her pain?"

Abby turned to the niece. "Mrs Hainey, could you leave the room please? I need to examine your aunt."

"It's Miss Hainey," said Brenda. "And I'm sure Aunt Mary would rather have me stay."

"I still have to ask you to leave."

Brenda glanced at her aunt, obviously expecting a protest. Mary Allen stared straight ahead, silent.

Brenda clutched the Bible tighter. "I'll be right outside, Aunt Mary."

"Dear Lord," whispered Mary, as the door shut behind Brenda. "This must be my punishment."

"Are you referring to your niece?"

Mary's tired gaze focused onAbby. "Do you think my soul needs saving?"

"I'd say that's entirely up to you. And no one else." Abby took out her stethoscope. "Can I listen to your lungs?"

Obediently Mary sat up and lifted her hospital gown.

Her breath sounds were muffled. By tapping down Mary's back, Abby could hear the change between liquid and air, could tell that more fluid had accumulated in the chest since the last time she'd examined her.

Abby straightened. "How's your breathing?"

"It's fine."

"We may need to drain some more fluid pretty soon. Or insert another chest tube."

"Why?"

"To make your breathing easier. To keep you comfortable."

"Is that the only reason?"

"Comfort is a very important reason, Mrs Allen."

Mary sank back on the pillows. "Then I'll let you know when I need it," she whispered.

When Abby emerged from the room, she found Brenda Hainey waiting right outside the door. "Your aunt would like to sleep for a while," said Abby. "Maybe you could come back some other time." "There's a matter I need to discuss with you, Doctor."

"Yes?"

"I was just checking with the nurse. About that morphine. Is it really necessary?"

"I think your aunt would say so."

"It's making her drowsy. All she does is sleep."

"We're trying to keep her as pain-free as possible. The cancer's spread everywhere. Her bones, her brain. It's the worst kind of pain imaginable. The kindest thing we can do for her is to help her go with a minimum of discomfort."

"What do you mean, help her go?"

"She's dying. There's nothing we can do to change that."

"You used those words. Help her go. Is that what the morphine's for?"

"It's what she wants and needs right now."

"I've confronted this sort of issue before, Doctor. With other relatives. I happen to know for a fact it's not legal to medically assist a suicide."

Abby felt her face flush with anger. Fighting to control it, she said as calmly as she could manage: "You misunderstand me. All we're trying to do is keep your aunt comfortable."

"There are other ways to do it."

"Such as?"

"Calling on higher sources of help."

"Are you referring to prayer?"

"Why not? It's helped me through difficult times."

"You're certainly welcome to pray for your aunt. But if I recall, there's nothing against morphine in the Bible."

Brenda's face went rigid. Her retort was cut off by the sound of Abby's beeper.

"Excuse me," said Abby coolly, and she walked away, leaving the conversation unfinished. A good thing, too; she'd been on the verge of saying something really sarcastic. Something like: While you're praying to your God, why don't you ask Him for a cure? That would surely have pissed off Brenda. With Joe Terrio's lawsuit lurking on the horizon, and Victor Voss determined to get her fired, the last thing she needed was another complaint lodged against her.

She picked up a phone in the nurses' station and dialled the number on her beeper readout.

A woman's voice answered: "Information Desk."

"This is Dr. DiMatteo. You paged me?"

"Yes, Doctor. There's a Bernard Katzka standing here at the desk. He's wondering if you could meet him here in the lobby."

"I don't know anyone by that name. I'm sort of busy up here. Could you ask him what his business is?"

There was a background murmur of conversation. When the woman came back on, her voice sounded oddly reticent. "Dr. DiMatteo?"

"Yes."

"He's a policeman."

The man in the lobby looked vaguely familiar. He was in his mid forties, medium height, medium build, with the sort of face that was neither handsome nor homely and not particularly memorable.

His hair, a dark brown, was starting to thin at the top, a fact he made no effort to conceal the way some men did with a sideways combing of camouflaging strands. As she approached him, she had the impression that he recognized her as well. His gaze had, in fact, singled her out the moment she stepped off the elevator.

"Dr. DiMatteo," he said. "I'm Detective Bernard Katzka. Homicide."

Just hearing that word startled her.what was this all about?They shook hands. Only then, as she met his gaze, did she remember where she'd seen him. The cemetery. Aaron Levi's funeral. He'd been standing slightly apart from everyone, a silent figure in a dark suit. During the service, their gazes had intersected. She'd understood none of the Hebrew being recited, and her attention had wandered to the other mourners. That's when she'd become aware that someone else was scanning the gathering. They had looked at each other, only for a second, and then he'd looked away. At the time, she'd registered almost no impression of the man. Looking up at his face now, she found herself focusing on his eyes, which were a calm, unflinching grey. If not for the intelligence of those eyes, one might never notice Bernard Katzka. She said, "Are you a friend of the Levi family?"

"No."

"I saw you at the cemetery. Or am I mistaken?"

"I was there."

She paused, waiting for an explanation, but all he said was, "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Can I ask what this is all about?"

"Dr. Levi's death."

She glanced at the lobby doors. The sun was shining and she had not been outside all day.

"There's a little courtyard with a few benches," she said. 'why don't we go out there?"

It was warm outside, a perfect October afternoon. The courtyard garden was in its chrysanthemum phase, the circular bed planted with blooms of rust orange and yellow. At the centre a fountain poured out a quietly comforting trickle of water. They sat down on one of the wooden benches. A pair of nurses occupying the other bench rose and walked back towards the building, leaving Abby and the detective alone. For a moment nothing was said. The silence made Abby uneasy, but it did not appear to disturb her companion in the least. He seemed accustomed to long silences.

"Elaine Levi gave me your name," he said. "She suggested I talk to you."

"Why?"

"You spoke to Dr. Levi early Saturday morning. Is that correct?"

"Yes. On the phone."

"Do you remember what time that was?"

"Around 2 a.m., I guess. I was in the hospital."

"He made the call?"

"Well, he called the SICU and asked to speak to the upper level resident. I happened to be it that night."

"Why was he calling?"

"About a patient. She was running a post-op fever, and Aaron wanted to discuss a plan of action. Which labs we should order, which x-rays. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?"

"I'm trying to establish the chronology of events. So Dr. Levi called the SICU at 2 a.m. and you came on the line."

"That's right."

"Did you talk to him again? After that 2 a.m. call?"

"No."

"Did you try to call him?"

"Yes, but he'd already left the house. I spoke to Elaine."