The Cinderella Hour (30 page)

Grace
Memorial Psychiatric Institute

Wednesday,
November
2

11
a.m.

Blaine
’s receptionist, Louise, didn’t
notice Ellen and Patrick enter the office. Four of her five phone lines were
blinking. The fifth was in use by her.

“You’ve reached the office of Dr. Blaine Prescott,” she read
from a typed page. “Because of last night’s
Cinderella Hour
interview,
we have been flooded with requests for appointments. As much as he would like
to, Dr. Prescott is unable to accommodate these requests in the timely fashion
he believes everyone with postpartum depression deserves. But, as he hoped to
make clear last night, the treatment is straightforward. If your personal
physician isn’t comfortable prescribing an antidepressant, he or she can easily
refer you to a psychiatric colleague who is. The critical thing is that you get
help as quickly as possible—and that you’re extremely forthright about sharing the
problems and concerns you’ve been having . . .”

Louise provided another two sentences of advice. Once
satisfied with the recorded message, she hung up the receiver and placed the
line on hold.

Only then did she realize she wasn’t alone.

“Don’t worry,” Patrick said. “We won’t tell.”

“Answering the phone is a waste of everyone’s time.”

“The recording will help.”

“I hope so.” Louise frowned at the couple who had bypassed
the telephone and come directly to the office. “I really can’t make an
appointment for you. Dr. Prescott’s schedule is completely full.”

“We’re not here for an appointment,” Ellen said.

“Although,” Patrick noted, “we do need to see Blaine. It’s a personal matter. Is he here?”

“Not at the moment. I’m sorry, may I ask who you are?”

“My name is Ellen O’Neil. Blaine and I met three weeks after
his sister’s death. Obviously, we go back a long way. I can assure you Blaine will want to see me.”

“He’s making rounds. He should be back at noon.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said. “We’ll wait in his office.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

Patrick smiled. “It is. Really. Blaine and I go back a long
way, too. Trust me, he’ll love the surprise.”

“Hello, Thomas.”

Her voice on the phone told him everything he needed to know.
She remembered him. Them.

“Mira,” he whispered. “Hi.”

“Hi. I would have called earlier. Well, not much earlier. I
didn’t wake up until ten. Then, after convincing Vivian and Bea to go home for
a while, I was examined by a slew of doctors and interviewed by the police. I
know about Daniel, Thomas. How are you?”

“Many emotions.”

“Wendy’s nearby?”

“She’s right here, looking happy that it’s you and, I think,
wanting to tell you about Eileen. She does. I’m handing her the phone.”

“Mira?”

“Hi, Wendy.”

“Are you better?”

“Much better, thank you. I’ve heard a rumor Eileen’s much
better, too.”

“She’s playing with her fake mouse.”

“That sounds to me like she’s good as new.”

“Are you coming to see her?”

“Yes. And to see you and Thomas, too. It won’t be today. But
soon. As soon as I can.”

“Okay. Good. Well, bye.”

“Bye, sweetheart.”

“Me again,” Thomas said. “How do you feel?”

“I hurt!
Especially,” she added, “when I take a deep
breath to make an emphatic statement. Or when I laugh. Anyone who says cracked
ribs aren’t uncomfortable has never had them.”

“How’s your head?”

“Not great. But I’m sitting up, feeling so lucky, and thinking
about you—and Daniel. Bea and Vivian took turns being with him after you left.”

“I know they did. I’m very grateful. I’m also grateful that
Bea watched Wendy.”

“She said everything was fine until suddenly it wasn’t. The
panic hit her without warning.”

“I think that’s how it will be for a while.”

“That makes it difficult for you to leave her.”

“Impossible.”

“Impossible for you to sit with Daniel,” she said in a soft
voice, “the way you and Daniel sat with Eileen four years ago.”

“And to sit with you now.”

“
I’m
fine, Thomas. Truly I am. You really believe
talking to Daniel will help?”

“It’s already helping. It’s nothing that can be measured, at
least not yet. His labs are pretty much unchanged. But the nurses are
convinced. Daniel is better when someone’s talking to him. Vivian especially.
The effect lasts for a while, even after she leaves.”

“Vivian especially. Have they told her that?”

“I’ve asked them not to.”

“Why?”

“It’s not fair to her.”

“To feel useful and needed?”

“By someone she doesn’t know? Who’s critically ill? And who
may remain just the way he is for weeks, after which he may or may not improve?”

“It’s what you did for Eileen. And what you’d be doing for
Daniel if Wendy didn’t need you. I’m going to tell Vivian, Thomas. She’ll
want
to help.”

“That’s my point, Mira. I know she will. But your sister also
has a life.”

“She might beg to differ. At the moment, we’re both a little
unhappy with Blaine.”

“Because?”

“Did you ever get the impression he thinks he’s God’s gift to
psychiatry?”

“God’s gift to everything,” Thomas muttered.

“So you don’t like him. Vivian thought as much. Anyway, we’ve
discovered that he’s been manipulating us, telling us lies about each other, presumably
in the hope we’d get together and talk. The good, yet infuriating, thing is
that it’s worked. Vivian and I
are
talking, in a way we’ve never done before—and
that we’ve both wanted and missed. We’re grateful for what Blaine has done. We’re
just not thrilled about his methods.” She sighed audibly. “He’s going to expect
lavish appreciation of his cleverness, and I’m not in the mood to sing his
praises. I dread seeing him, in fact.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’m not exactly a moving target.”

“But you have total control over who’s permitted in your
room.”

“There
is
a very nice Quail Ridge police officer
stationed at my door.”

“And I’m very glad he’s there,” Thomas said. “But he’s merely
a backup for a system that can easily prevent Blaine from getting anywhere near
you. No one enters the ICU unless specifically authorized. Just say the word
and Blaine doesn’t get past our security guard.”

“He’s going to be livid.”

“Not your problem. Mira?”

She didn’t need to ask if Wendy was nearby. His tone said
they were the only two people in world. “Yes?”

“After I met you at Vivian’s wedding, I spent the next four
months telling myself that what I felt that day was impossible.”

“Me, too.”

“When that didn’t work, I told myself that even if the feelings
were real, I didn’t have much—enough—to offer.”

“Then Wendy came into your life.”

“No, Mira.
You
did. I was looking for you at the
Harvest Moon Ball, trying to find you, when I got the call from the sheriff.”

“And I was circling back to you.”

“Maybe I knew that. Something made me believe I had it in me
to give that lovely little girl a home. I have a feeling, Mira, that something
was you.”

“Well, well, well. Ellen O’Neil, I
presume? The name doesn’t suit you. Neither did Candy. Leigh was good, though.
You should’ve kept it. Patrick’s here also, I see. Interesting.”

“Is it, Blaine?”

“Not really. I’m trying to be civil. Frankly, it’s a
difficult task. I’m looking at a man who believes I’m a murderer. And a woman
who denied me my right to know my daughter.”

“I believe you’re a murderer, too,” Ellen said.

“Based on what?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“How about your confession to me three weeks after you
poisoned Julie and your mother?”

“Was this a taped confession? If so, I’d like to know where
you were hiding the recorder. As I recall, you were traveling light—and that
was before you stripped.”

Patrick had warned her Blaine would get nasty. She hadn’t
needed the warning. He had also told her, reminded her, that losing her temper
would be a victory for Blaine.

Patrick hadn’t told her anything she didn’t know. But there
were things she should have told Patrick. Nasty bits of ammunition Blaine was already firing her way—and which caused not the slightest ripple on Patrick’s
impassive face.

“I was hiding the recorder in my brain. I have an excellent
memory. I’ve also written it all down. It’s signed and notarized.”

“Whatever
it
is. Any memory you claim to have about my
confessing to murder is patently false.”

“I doubt my meager brain could invent the elaborate details I
recall. I feel sure you agree. I’m a woman, after all. You don’t hold us in
high regard.”

“I’ve dedicated my life to helping women.”

“And reveled in the adulation. That’s part of being a true
woman hater, isn’t it? Getting them to idolize you? Those are rhetorical
questions. Nothing to do with the reason I’m here. I wanted to give you fair
warning that I’m looking forward to sharing what you did, the murders you
committed, with a jury.”

“A word of advice,
Ellen
. Your hatred toward me—toward
all men?—wouldn’t play well in court. In my experience, juries don’t trust
witnesses with such obvious bias. My experience is vast, by the way. I’ve
provided expert testimony in numerous trials. Male jurors might find you appealing,
in spite of your disdain. But the women on the jury wouldn’t like you. They
might have sympathy for a street-corner prostitute. But for a temptress who
made a fortune seducing other women’s husbands? Never. You do know this about
your star witness, don’t you, Patrick?”

“I know everything about her, Blaine. And she and I know all
there is to know about you.”

“A jury
will
listen to me,” Ellen said. “They’ll be
riveted by the story of the medical student who plotted the killings down to
the most minute detail—and who responded with fury when a relatively
inconsequential item didn’t go exactly as planned. I’m talking about the raw
eggs you ate. You counted on becoming infected. You were enraged when it didn’t
work. You don’t handle rejection very well, do you?”

“After all these years, Patrick,
this
is the best you
can do? I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about.”

“The eggs, Blaine. She’s reminding you about the eggs.”

“Fine. The eggs. You’re saying I ate raw eggs?”

“You did.”

“And I was disappointed when I didn’t get what? Salmonella?”

“Not disappointed,” Ellen said. “Infuriated. You were still
raving about it three weeks later.”

“I’m afraid this is going to pose another problem for you
with women jurors—the mothers who’ve conscientiously warned their children
about the perils of salmonella and raw cookie dough . . . only to have seen no
adverse effects when the children disobeyed. You would know this, Ellen, if you’d
ever baked cookies for our daughter. If you’d ever been a mother to our Snow.”

“She’s not
our
Snow.”

“At last, a point of agreement. She’s
my
Snow. Or will
be when she hears the truth.”

“That you’re a murderer?”

“That I wouldn’t have abandoned her
ever
. Especially
in her hour of greatest need. You don’t know when that was, do you? Because you
didn’t listen to the end of last night’s show. You stopped listening, didn’t
you, after I left? I missed the end, too. Obviously. But unlike you, I cared
enough to listen this morning. Of course, I had already figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“This is so touching. This pretend concern for Snow. You had
your chance to be a mother. You failed. You know it. I know it. She knows it. A
jury would despise you for it. I would enjoy a trial. But I’m afraid an
incoherent rambling about raw eggs isn’t going to persuade a district attorney
to press charges. I repeat, Patrick, is this the best you can do?”

“I was just reminding you,” Ellen said, “of the details you
shared with me.”

“Meaning there’s more? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t
want to hear it. The sad truth is that my sister was psychotic. She succeeded
in killing herself and my mother and very nearly killed me. I told you about
the deaths thirty-two years ago. At the time, I believed they were accidental.
When I saw you many years later, I followed up on our previous conversation by
telling you I believed Julie poisoned us. I’d remembered how sweet some of the
dishes tasted. Too sweet for my liking. I didn’t eat as much of those dishes as
my mother and Julie did. That’s why I didn’t die. If I’m not mistaken, I even told
you the name of the poison I believed she used. Ethylene glycol. Antifreeze. It
leaves crystals in tissue. If the medical examiner had samples of their tissue,
we’d be able to prove it was antifreeze that killed them.”