Set Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries) (22 page)

The reporters could not restrain themselves now.

“What was the cause of death?”

“What did he die of?”

“What happened to him?”

Gestures of restraint from Edie, and then from Moon, who simply rose, and, palms turned outward, activated an invisible force field that pushed the ring of reporters a foot or so back.

“I’ve had the opportunity to perform a preliminary examination on Mr. Barrett. The official cause of death is cardiac arrest. To the best of my knowledge at this time, the arrest probably occurred between 2:30 and 3 this morning.”

“Doctor, was the cardiac arrest the result of any type of drug overdose?”

“I cannot tell you that at this time.”

“Were drugs present in Mr. Barrett’s blood?”

“Again, I cannot comment on that question.”

“You don’t know, or you just won’t comment?”

“Again, I can only say…”

Tomlinson now on his feet.
 

Suit just as exquisite, but black now and not charcoal gray.

That superb head of white, perfectly combed hair, glistening in the morning light streaming through a row of windows just behind where Nina was sitting.

“I’m sorry, Mister Coroner. You’ve had a chance to examine the body?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know any more to say than, ‘his heart stopped’?”

“No.”

“How is this possible?”

“Sir, all I can tell you is…”

Tomlinson, face flushed, another step forward.

He was almost in Paul Dawkins’ face, and even Moon seemed unable to hold him back.

“This is absurd! My client, Clifton Barrett, was attacked two nights ago in a local restaurant.”

Edie, half standing:

“Mr. Tomlinson…”

“…no no, let me finish here! And everybody in this building needs to hear this. He was viciously attacked by some deranged woman, and nothing at all was done about it.
 
Now this man, who I can tell you all because I’ve been for some time his personal attorney, has never had any history of heart disease, is found dead in his bed. He routinely took an over the counter pain suppressant and a mild sedative. But he had been following this routine for years with no problems.
 
And now all you can say is, ‘his heart stopped’? That’s all you know about the exact cause of death?”

“Sir, we will ascertain the cause of death.”

“When?”

“I’m sorry but I can’t say more at this time.”

“Why not?”

“There are things—that’s really all I can say.”

“You haven’t said anything. May I ask a question of Officer Rivard?”

Moon Rivard rose.

“I’m here.”

“Are the police looking into the prospect that there may have been foul play involved here?”

“When a death is sudden, and unexpected, we always have to make a report.”

“Make a report?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“That’s all you’re doing?”

“At this time.”

“You’ve not arrested anybody?”

A shake of the head.

“Not any reason to, at this time.”

“All right, then, I’ll ask the Doctor again,” bellowed Tomlinson. “Doctor, is there a possibility that Clifton Barrett may have been poisoned?”

At this Edie Towler stood, and gestured for the coroner to stand.

“This concludes the press conference.”

So saying, she strode out of the gymnasium, leading Paul Dawkins and Moon Rivard out through the visitors exit.

For the rest of the morning, Bay St. Lucy found itself plagued by small cancers that kept breaking out in the form of press conferences. This was probably natural, since the city airport was jammed to capacity by private jets flying in carrying more and more reporters, and these reporters had to file stories. Every citizen, every shop owner, seemed fair game.

“Did you know Clifton Barrett?”

“Do you have any comment on an alleged assault that took place some nights ago?”

“Did Mr. Barrett abuse his wife?”

“To the best of your knowledge, was the Barrett’s marriage in trouble of some sort?”

“Did Mr. Barrett use drugs?”

“We’re from
People
Magazine, and….”

“I’m from
The New York Times
, and…”

On and on and on.

Nina found herself drawn here and there by these abscesses, watching them grow, smiling inwardly at the stupidity of the questions, feeling a bit of pity for the townspeople who struggled vainly to provide answers—for the whole thing was impossible to make sense of—and feeling an equal amount of contempt for people who seemed to enjoy themselves simply because they wanted to be on national TV.
   

Finally it was ten o’clock in the morning. The sun had climbed halfway up a sky that no longer had anything to do with hurricanes coming or going, and was just blue-shimmering and hot.

The hospital drew her like a magnet. Word was that Helen and Hope Reddington had been taken there for observation, and that both were about to be released (They could not stay in a small private room forever) and she wanted to be there when they were.

She had no idea why she wanted to be there.

She could not invite them to stay in her one room shack.

(And, as she had earlier told John Giusti, every family in Bay St. Lucy had already made such an offer.)

She could not help them with any kind of advice.

The simple truth was, she finally found herself admitting mentally, that she was motivated by morbid curiosity.

So she arrived at ten and waited, standing around, overhearing bits of gossip.

“How is Helen holding up?”

“I don’t know.
  
The minister is in there now.”

Another voice.

“I heard she’s just being real…you know, quiet.
 
Marge Peterson had gone in with flowers and was just out in the hall. She said Helen was just real quiet, and asked to be left alone for a little while.”

This kind of talk made Nina face a question she’d been avoiding.

What did Helen Reddington think about the death of her husband?

She could remember Helen lying there on the deck, cigarette smoldering, her dark and enigmatic eyes focused on the horizon—talking about the hell her life had become.

Made so by this man.

“Somebody needs to kill him,” Helen had said.

Now he was dead.

But how?

“She was just real quiet…”

I’ll bet,
thought
 
Nina,
that she was
.

By ten thirty, the people-tumor that was spreading in front of Bay St. Lucy’s hospital had metathesized alarmingly, so that ambulances would have been blocked from approaching emergency rooms, had there been any ambulances out at this particular time, which there apparently weren’t, the town having during the past ten hours exhausted the daily supply of emergencies it was allowed to have.

“Ms. Bannister?”

This from a whispered voice close behind her.

“Ms. Bannister?”

She turned and saw a short and sandy-haired young woman whom she did not recognize, but who, to judge from her starched white uniform, appeared to be a hospital orderly of some sort.

“Yes?”

“You’re Nina Bannister?”

“I am.”

The young woman leaned closer.

Her whisper was barely audible.

“Would you mind to follow me?”

“What…”

“They’re going to be releasing the Reddingtons.”

Nina still did not comprehend what role she was to play in this, but the woman took her arm gently and began to pull.

They had begun to make their way through the crowd.

The whispers continued, over the woman’s shoulder.

“There are too many people out here at the front entrance; they’re taking them out at the rear of the hospital. All these reporters…”

“Yes, I see.”

“But…well, Ms. Helen is asking for you.”

“Why?”

“I think she wants you to do some things for her, ma’am.”

And so Nina followed obediently as they left the main part of the crowd, made their way around a corner of the building, and came to a halt behind a nondescript pale blue door which sat in the middle of a nondescript not-quite yellow wall.

The words “Do Not Enter” were stenciled in white on the door.

Which immediately opened.

Standing within it, frozen, motionless for an instant, were Helen and Hope Reddington, dressed as if for church (where, Nina wondered, had the dress clothes come from?…then she remembered the fifty or so lady church members standing at the other side of the hospital and she began to get some idea)—and ringed by one or two doctors, one or two policemen, and one or two of those people who never seem to have a real function but who always pop up at important events.

It took a millisecond for Helen to recognize Nina.

Then she dove out of the doorway and tackled her as though sacking a quarterback.

Neither she nor Nina fell down, but the embrace was so strong, the capture so complete, that the play would have been called dead, and Nina would have lost five yards.

Helen was sobbing.

After a few seconds, Nina realized that she was sobbing, too.

“Nina…”

“It’s all right.”

Finally Hope was standing beside them. She beamed up at Nina.

Yes, it was Hope, the real Hope, because once again she was looking up and out from under something.

“Nina, dear!”

“How are you Hope?”
          

“I’m fine, dear.
 
They’re taking such good care of us!”

“I know, Hope!”

Then Hope, turning to Helen:

“Can we go home now, Helen?”

“No, Grandmamma, not quite yet.”