Devil's Waltz (41 page)

Barely audible, but the anguish in her voice opened Cassie’s eyes. The little girl stared up at her mother and mewled.

“No, no, baby, it’s okay. I’m sorry — it’s okay.”

Mouthing to me: “I’m horrible.”

Cassie started to cry again.

“No, no, it’s okay, honey. I’m good. If you want me to be good, I’m good. I’m a
good
mommy, yes, I am, yes — yes, honey, everything’s okay. Okay?”

Forcing herself to smile down at Cassie. Cassie reached up and touched one of Cindy’s cheeks.

“Oh, you are
so
good, little girl,” said Cindy, in a crumbling voice. “You are
so
good to your mommy. You are
so
,
so good!
”

“Ma ma.”

“Mama
loves
you.”

“Ma ma.”

“You’re so good to your mama. Cassie Brooks Jones is the best girl, the sweetest girl.”

“Ma ma. Mamama.”

“Mama loves you
so
much. Mama loves you
so
much.” Cindy looked at me. Looked at the play table.

“Mama loves you,” she said into Cassie’s ear. “And Dr. Delaware’s a very good friend, honey. Here, see?”

She turned Cassie’s head toward me. I tried another smile, hoping it looked better than it felt.

Cassie shook her head violently and said, “Nuh!”

“Remember, he’s our friend, honey? All those pretty drawings he did for you at the hospita—”

“Nuh!”

“The animals—”

“Nuh
nub
!”

“C’mon, honey, there’s nothing to be scared of—”

“Nuuub!”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay, Cass.”

I got up.

“Are you going?” said Cindy. Alarm in her voice.

I pointed to the bathroom. “May I?”

“Oh. Sure. There’s one just off the entry hall too.”

“This is fine.”

“Sure… Meantime, I’ll try to calm her down…. I’m really, really sorry.”

I locked the door and the one leading to the master bedroom, flushed the toilet, and let out my breath. The water was as blue as the tiles. I found myself staring down at a tiny azure whirlpool. Turning on the water, I washed my face and dried it, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Dire and old with suspicion. I tried on a few smiles, finally settled on one that didn’t approximate the leer of a used-car salesman. The mirror was the face of a medicine cabinet.

Child-proof latch. I undid it.

Four shelves. I turned the water up full blast, rifled quickly, starting at the top and working down.

Aspirin, Tylenol, razor blades, shaving cream. Men’s cologne, deodorant, an emery board, a bottle of liquid antacid. A small yellow box of spermicidal jelly capsules. Hydrogen peroxide, a tube of earwax-dissolving ointment, suntan lotion…

I closed the cabinet. When I turned off the water I heard Cindy’s voice through the door, saying something comforting and maternal.

Until she’d thrust Cassie at me, the little girl had accepted me.

Maybe I’m not supposed to be a mother…. I’m a horrible mother.

Stretched past the breaking point? Or trying to sabotage my visit?

I rubbed my eyes. Another cabinet beneath the sink. Another child-proof latch. Such careful parents, pulling up the carpets, washing the toys…

Cindy was cooing to Cassie.

Silently, I got down on my knees, freed the latch, and opened the door.

Beneath the snake of the drainpipe were boxes of tissues and rolls of plastic-wrapped toilet paper. Behind those sat two bottles of green mint mouthwash and an aerosol can. I examined the can. Pine-scented disinfectant. As I replaced it, it fell and my arm shot forward to catch it and mask the noise. I succeeded but the back of my hand knocked against something, off to the right, with sharp corners.

I pushed the paper goods aside and drew it out.

White cardboard box, about five inches square, imprinted on top with a red-arrow logo above stylized red script that read
HOLLOWAY MEDICAL CORP
. Above that was an arrow-shaped gold foil sticker:
SAMPLE
,
PRESENTED TO
:
Ralph Benedict, M.D.

A string-and-disc tie held the box shut. I unwound it, pushed back the flaps, and exposed a sheet of corrugated brown paper. Under that was a row of white plastic cylinders the size of ballpoint pens, nestled in a bed of Styrofoam peanuts. A folded slip of printed paper was rubber-banded to each one.

I fished out a cylinder. Feather-light, almost flimsy. A numbered ring girdled the bottom of the shaft. At the tip was a hole surrounded by screw thread; on the other end, a cap that twisted but didn’t come off.

Black letters on the barrel said
INSUJECT
. I removed the printed paper. Manufacturer’s brochure, copyrighted five years ago. Holloway Medical’s home office was in San Francisco.

The first paragraph read:

I
NSUJECT
(TM) is a dose-adjustable ultra-lightweight delivery system for the subcutaneous administration of human or purified pork insulin in 1 to 3 unit doses. I
NSUJECT
should be used in conjunction with other components of the Holloway I
NSU
-
EASE
(TM) system, namely, I
NSUJECT
disposable needles and I
NSUFILL
(TM) cartridges.

The second paragraph highlighted the selling points of the system: portability, an ultra-thin needle that reduced pain and the risk of subdermal abscesses, increased “ease of administration and precise calibration of dosage.” A series of boxed line drawings illustrated needle attachment, loading of the cartridge into the cylinder, and the proper way to inject insulin beneath the skin.

Ease of administration.

An ultra-thin needle would leave a minuscule puncture wound, just as Al Macauley had described. If the injection site was concealed, the mark just might escape detection.

I groped around inside the box, looking for needles.

None, just the cylinders. Shoving my hands into the recesses of the cabinet yielded nothing more.

Probably cool enough to store insulin, but maybe someone was picky. Could Insufill cartridges be sitting on one of the shelves of the chrome-faced refrigerator in the kitchen?

Standing, I placed the box on the counter and the brochure in my pocket. The water in the toilet bowl had just stopped spinning. I cleared my throat, coughed, flushed again, looking around the room for another hiding place.

The only possibility I could see was the toilet tank. I lifted the cap and peered in. Just plumbing and the gizmo that dyed the water.

Ultra-thin needle… The bathroom was an ideal hiding place — perfect conduit from the master suite to the nursery.

Perfect for fixing up a middle-of-the-night injection:

Lock the door to the master suite, fetch the gear from beneath the sink, assemble it, and tiptoe into Cassie’s room.

The bite of the needle would startle the little girl awake, probably make her cry, but she wouldn’t know what had happened.

Neither would anyone else. Waking up in tears was normal for a child her age. Especially one who’d been sick so often.

Would darkness conceal the needle-wielder’s face?

On the other side of the nursery door Cindy was talking, sounding sweet.

Then again, maybe there was an alternative explanation. The cylinders were meant for her. Or Chip.

No — Stephanie had said she’d tested both of them for metabolic disease and found them healthy.

I looked at the door to the master bedroom, then down at my watch. I’d spent three minutes in this blue-tile dungeon, but it felt like a weekend. Unlocking the door, I padded across the threshold into the bedroom, grateful for thick, tight-weave carpeting that swallowed my footsteps.

The room was darkened by drawn shutters and furnished with a king-size bed and clumsy Victorian furniture. Books were stacked high on one of the night-stands. A phone sat atop the stack. Next to the table was a brass-and-wood valet over which hung a pair of jeans. The other stand bore a Tiffany revival lamp and a coffee mug. The bedcovers were turned down but folded neatly. The room smelled of the pine disinfectant I’d found in the bathroom.

Lots of disinfectant. Why?

A double chest ran along the wall facing the bed. I opened a top drawer. Bras and panties and hose and floral sachet in a packet. I felt around, closed the drawer, got to work on the one below, wondering what thrill Dawn Herbert had gotten from petty theft.

Nine drawers. Clothing, a couple of cameras, canisters of film, and a pair of binoculars. Across the room was a closet. More clothes, tennis rackets and canisters of balls, a fold-up rowing machine, garment bags and suitcases, more books — all on sociology. A telephone directory, light bulbs, travel maps, a knee brace. Another box of contraceptive jelly. Empty.

I searched garment pockets, found nothing but lint. Maybe the dark corners of the closet concealed something but I’d been there too long. Shutting the closet door, I snuck back to the bathroom. The toilet had stopped gurgling and Cindy was no longer talking.

Had she grown suspicious about my prolonged absence? I cleared my throat again, turned on the water, heard Cassie’s voice — some kind of protest — then the resumption of mommy-talk.

Detaching the toilet paper holder, I slid off the old roll and tossed it into the cabinet. Unwrapping a refill, I slipped it onto the dispenser. The ad copy on the wrapper promised to be gentle.

Picking up the white box, I pushed open the door to Cassie’s room, wearing a smile that hurt my teeth.

They were at the play table, holding crayons. Some of the papers were covered with colored scrawl.

When Cassie saw me she gripped her mother’s arm and began whining.

“It’s okay, hon. Dr. Delaware’s our friend.” Cindy noticed the box in my hands and squinted.

I came closer and showed it to her. She stared at it, then up at me. I stared back, searching for any sign of self-indictment.

Just confusion.

“I was looking for toilet paper,” I said, “and came across this.”

She leaned forward and read the gold sticker.

Cassie watched her, then picked up a crayon and threw it. When that didn’t capture her mother’s attention, she whined some more.

“Shh, baby.” Cindy’s squint tightened. She continued to look baffled. “How strange.”

Cassie threw her arms up and said, “Uh uh uh!”

Cindy pulled her closer and said, “Haven’t seen those in a long time.”

“Didn’t mean to snoop,” I said, “but I knew Holloway made equipment for diabetics and when I saw the label I got curious — thinking about Cassie’s blood sugar. Are you or Chip diabetic?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “Those were Aunt Harriet’s.
Where
did you find them?”

“Beneath the sink.”

“How odd. No, Cass, these are for drawing, not throwing.” She picked up a red crayon and drew a jagged line.

Cassie followed the movement, then buried her head in Cindy’s blouse.

“Boy, I haven’t seen those in a really long time. I cleaned out her house, but I thought I threw all her medicines out.”

“Was Dr. Benedict her doctor?”

“And her boss.”

She bounced Cassie gently. Cassie peeked out from under her arm, then began poking her under the chin.

Cindy laughed and said, “You’re tickling me…. Isn’t that odd, under the sink all this time?” She gave an uneasy smile. “Guess that doesn’t make me much of a housekeeper. Sorry you had to go looking for paper — I usually notice when the roller’s low.”

“No problem,” I said, realizing there’d been no dust on the box.

Pulling out a cylinder, I rolled it between my fingers.

Cassie said, “Peh-il.”

“No, it’s not a pencil, honey.” No anxiety. “It’s just a… thing.”

Cassie reached for it. I gave it to her and Cindy’s eyes got wide. Cassie put it to her mouth, grimaced, lowered it to the paper and tried to draw.

“See, I told you, Cass. Here, if you want to draw, use this.”

Cassie ignored the proffered crayon and kept looking at the cylinder. Finally she threw it down on the table and began to fuss.

“C’mon, sweetie, let’s draw with Dr. Delaware.”

My name evoked a whimper.

“Cassie
Brooks
, Dr. Delaware came all the way to play with you, to draw animals — hippos, kangaroos. Remember the kangaroos?”

Cassie whimpered louder.

“Hush, honey,” said Cindy, but without conviction. “No, don’t break your crayons, honey. You can’t — C’mon, Cass.”

“Uh uh uh.” Cassie tried to get off Cindy’s lap.

Cindy looked at me.

I offered no advice.

“Should I let her?”

“Sure,” I said. “I don’t want to be associated with confining her.”

Cindy released her and Cassie made her way to the floor and crawled under the table.

“We did a little drawing while we were waiting for you,” said Cindy. “I guess she’s had enough.”

She bent and looked under the table. “Are you tired of drawing, Cass? Do you want to do something else?”

Cassie ignored her and picked at the carpet fibers.

Cindy sighed. “I’m really sorry — for before. I… it just… I really blew it, didn’t I? I really, really screwed things up — don’t know what came over me.”

“Sometimes things just pile up,” I said, shifting the Insuject box from one hand to another. Keeping it in her view, looking for any sign of nervousness.

“Yes, but I still blew it for you and Cassie.”

“Maybe it’s more important for you and me to talk, anyway.”

“Sure,” she said, touching her braid and casting a glance under the table. “I could sure use some help, couldn’t I? How about coming out now, Miss Cassie?”

No answer.

“Could I trouble you for another iced tea?” I said.

“Oh, sure, no trouble at all. Cass, Dr. Delaware and I are going into the kitchen.”

Cindy and I walked to the door of the nursery. Just as we reached the threshold, Cassie crawled out, tottered upright, and came running toward Cindy, arms outstretched. Cindy picked her up and carried her on one hip. I followed, carrying the white box.