The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder (25 page)

“I guess I can do that, but we’re grasping at straws.”

“For sure, but it’s better than nothing. You mentioned the movies. Do you think she might be hiding out in a movie theater?”

Brian blinked. “It’s possible, I suppose. There’s not that many around Woodbridge. I could check them out tomorrow. I think they’ll all be closed up now for the night. Although that’s kind of weird and creepy and Mona’s not a creepy person. Eccentric, yes, but not creepy.”

“You do that. I’m going to talk to someone else who might shed light on this.”

“Good luck. No one knows her better than I do.”

“I’m thinking of a mental health professional who deals with these issues.”

“You won’t tell him about the alter egos, will you?”

“Of course I will. I already have. I left a message. We need to know what to do. Even if it’s not true, Mona thinks it is and what does that mean for her behavior?”

I was glad to have met Brian. I liked the way he cared about Mona and believed in her. We each had the other’s home and cell phone numbers. We agreed to touch base the next day and to stay in contact with ideas. I felt depressed as I headed out into the stinging snow and home.

Pepper still hadn’t called me back. Something else was bothering me. In the back of my mind, a thought flickered. Amsterdam Avenue was less than a half mile from the police station. Was that close enough? Brian had admitted that he’d covered for Mona when she was distraught. Had he also covered for her during the murders without being aware of what he was doing?

Thursday morning at Hannah’s, I had trouble concentrating. I’d had no response from Pepper and no more calls from Mona. Fortunately Lilith was there and managed a steady stream of pleasant chat as we set up the baking storage and the food prep storage. We walked through the typical meal prep with Hannah and set up the most frequently used utensils and cookware close at hand. We settled on a small number of cleaning products, near the sink. All common sense, but that can desert a person when households merge. At the end of our session, the kitchen was trimmed and workable. The charity box was brimming and Lilith was happy to take the lot to her youth services organization. As we opened each cupboard, Hannah was able to smile happily. At least something had gone well.

“I feel like such an idiot,” she said. “This was such a simple process.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You were suffering from TMS,” Lilith said.

Hannah’s eyebrows rose. “What’s that?”

“Too much stuff,” Lilith and I said in unison.

“Never again,” Hannah said. “And I will give your name to everyone I know. Both of you!”

We left with a check and a promise I’d check in a few months to see what might have sneaked back into the gorgeous kitchen. I entered it in my agenda on the spot. I was willing to bet that Hannah would make sure the kitchen stayed the way it was.

Even so, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

I was desperate to speak to Dr. Partridge. Lucky for me, his office address was listed in the phone book. I remembered Sally mentioning his office was at home, so that address was my first stop. The luck ended there.

The woman who answered the door of the white Cape Cod–style home had a silver bun and eyes rimmed with red. Her nose matched the eyes. She was somewhere in her early sixties and still attractive despite the fact she’d obviously been crying for hours. Dr. Partridge’s mother perhaps? I decided she was a bit too youthful to have a son who was in his fifties and I wondered for a second if she was a patient whose appointment had at long last dealt with some deep-seated issues.

“Charlotte Adams,” I said firmly. “I am here to see Dr. Partridge.” I didn’t say he was expecting me, as he wasn’t. I was there to see him though.

She gasped and covered her hand with her mouth. Her entire body quivered. Was everyone in Woodbridge planning to spend the day in tears? What the hell was going on? Maybe a full moon with a holdover to the day?

“What is it? What’s wrong?” I blurted. “Can I do anything to help?”

“I need to sit down,” she said, so weakly I could hardly hear her. I followed her as she staggered into the house and collapsed into a chair in the living room. I sat in the next chair and stared as she wiped her eyes with her flowered apron. Was she his housekeeper? Had he just given her notice? What could I do? What should I do? “Can I get you something? A drink of water?” That was lame, but I felt quite useless.

“Is Dr. Partridge here?” I said eventually.

That started another torrent of tears, but I waited it out. Eventually she was able to shake her head.

“Do you know where I can find him?” I waited.

“They took him away.” She shuddered.

“What? Who did?” I kept my voice gentle despite that shock. I had a vision of the police frog-marching the psychologist out the door into the snow.

Another deep shudder and she seemed to regain a bit of composure. One more sniff and she was able to say, “The paramedics.”

“Paramedics! What happened?”

“I don’t know. They came and took away all his medications. He was . . . Who did you say you were again?”

“Charlotte Adams. I’ve been meeting with Dr. Partridge to discuss some bullying issues and I was hoping to catch him this morning.”

I waited again, and then asked softly, “Are you a relative?”

“What? No. I’m Lydia Johnson, the housekeeper. Dr. Partridge is a widower. I’ve been caring for him for years.”

I blurted out, “Oh, I wondered who made those lunches.”

She looked at me strangely. “He makes those himself. I just sort of manage the place, arrange to keep it up; it’s just a few hours a week because he’s such an orderly person, but he works so hard and he likes everything under control and now . . .”

I gave her a chance to get a grip. Finally, she squared her shoulders and stared at me with heartbreak on her face. “He’s the kindest man I ever met. He hadn’t been sleeping well. How could I let this happen?”

“What did happen?”

“He was unconscious when I found him this morning. I think he may die.”

Sally was still my go-to gal for anything to do with the medical community in Woodbridge. She had already heard the news when I reached her by phone.

“Benjamin called me. Everyone at Woodbridge General is reeling. Sam Partridge is the most even, sensible man you could ever meet.”

“I know. I met him, thanks to you. But what—?”

“He’d had a horrible cold and a bit of bronchitis and he hadn’t been sleeping. It seems he got up in the middle of the night and took a bunch of medications and probably got mixed up. Maybe he was groggy and doubled or tripled his dose of things that shouldn’t be taken together. They think he fell and hit his head after that. Benjamin says that a lot of people are injured in falls after they’ve messed up their meds.”

I thought back to our meeting in the hospital cafeteria. “He mentioned that he had a cold. He had a pill dispenser with him at the hospital, and he said he was taking a lot of stuff.”

“That fits, I guess,” Sally said with a sigh. “You’d think a medical professional would be more cautious, but I know that Benjamin often isn’t careful about himself.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Touch and go.” She paused to clear her throat. “They don’t know yet.”

I thought about Dr. Partridge. Sally was right. He was a sensible man. That had been obvious from his lunches, the way they were organized, packed, and even eaten. What were the chances that such an orderly, intelligent person would mix up his meds? If Dr. Partridge could make a mistake like that, anyone could. But I remembered that he had them in a small blue pill container. If memory served, most of the compartments had been full. Something was very wrong here.

“Did they find his pill container, Sally?”

“What?”

“He had one of those little blue—”

“How would I know? And why on earth would you even ask that?”

“It’s odd that something should happen to him when he had all his meds organized
and
he had treated at least one of the people involved in this bullying thing.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you, Sal.”

“Don’t go getting like that, Charlotte Adams.”

“I mean I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I could tell by his reaction when I asked him that he had treated one of them. He talked about confidentiality. He didn’t say he hadn’t or that he didn’t know what I was talking about. He didn’t want to talk to me about it. He raced out of the parking lot to avoid me yesterday afternoon. So I am convinced he did treat someone, but I have no idea who. Could have been Mona. Could have been one of the cabal. But he knew exactly what I was talking about. And it had an impact on him. I wonder if he actually got in touch with one of them, even though he said that a therapist wouldn’t do that.”

Sally said, “Then I’m responsible if he dies.”

“Of course you’re not. Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I set you up to meet with him.”

“Sally, we have to consider that the person who was under his care might have done this to keep him quiet. It’s not your fault or mine.” While I said that, deep down I felt a horrible grinding guilt. Whom had I told about Dr. Partridge? It definitely wasn’t Sally’s fault, but there was a good chance that it was mine. Had I let it slip to Mona? I didn’t think I had, but if so, I was too stupid to live. I could hear Sally crying softly on her end of the phone.

“Sally, you have to tell Benjamin what I said. Tell him to let the police know. I don’t get the best response. Pepper just blows me off whenever I try to talk to her about this. And she’s not even returning my calls. But the point is that Dr. Partridge is still alive and someone wants him dead.”