Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 36, No. 6, June 1991

M Is for Mayo by William Pomidor

“You haven’t taken any of the crab Louis,” Cal scolded her husband as they walked from the buffet. Choosing a picnic table beneath a copse of trees, she asked, “Have you tried it? It’s delicious, Plato.”

It was a stunning summer Sunday, a cool crisp midwestern rarity. Either divine providence or the fickle hand of fate was blocking Erie humidity from the Appalachian foothills. Plato wouldn’t let his wife’s appeal for a healthier diet spoil his breezy mood.

“All that mayonnaise!” he chided her with a self-righteous tsk! “I wouldn’t think of it.”

Cal frowned at her plate as she sat down. Dwarfed by a pair of radishes, the tiny smear of crab was barely visible — hardly enough cholesterol to clog the arteries of a mouse. Some carrot slices and a light salad completed her meal. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll eat the crab last.” She brightened. “You’re doing so well with your Healthy Heart diet. I feel guilty sometimes...”

Plato glanced at his wife’s wispy figure and meager serving and felt his own twinges of guilt. Hidden under a flimsy Caesar salad disguise lurked a cut of prime rib thick enough to choke a horse. Under the table, a steak knife sliced through his pants pocket.

“Ahh, the Doctors Marley!” A beefy hand slapped Plato’s back.

“Rufus!” Cal bounced from her seat across the table and gave the intruder a warm hug. “The party is wonderful. Fantastic food. I was just telling—”

Her husband tried to rise, but his knife threatened vital organs.

“No, don’t get up.” Rufus Thorndyke squeezed Plato’s shoulder reassuringly. Back at the buffet tent, he had witnessed Plato’s cattle-rustling behavior with raised eyebrows. “That diet of yours must have left you pretty weak.”

“It’s a sacrifice at first,” Plato acknowledged with a brave smile. “But after a while, you hardly notice the difference.”

Rufus grinned back. Tipping the scales at three hundred pounds, he was something of a stranger to dietary sacrifices. But on his mooselike frame, the extra weight looked natural.

Tailoring, Plato told himself.

“Cal, I’ve got Brownie all saddled up and ready to ride.” His light green eyes chuckled at Plato. “Sanchez is ready, too, if you want to accompany your wife. He’s a gentle horse. Really.”

Plato suppressed a groan. Old Sanchez, the Venezuelan hell-horse. Rufus had rescued the ancient Thoroughbred from some Caracas glue factory. “Sure. Can’t wait.”

Thorndyke glanced up the hill. Near the buffet canopy a hand waved, accompanied by a voice carried high and thin on the breeze.

“There’s Jan. She was driving the lobster down from the airport.” Turning, Rufus waddled up the hill to greet his lovely young wife.

“What’s he talking about?” Plato asked when Thorndyke was out of earshot. In his confusion, he wondered if he had heard correctly. “Jan’s on a lobster drive? Is that what the horses are for?”

Cal just rolled her eyes.

He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! We all know there’s something fishy about how Rufus got his money. Maybe ‘The Lobster’ is a mob kingpin. Works out of Maine — Bangor, Rockport. Commands with a claw, traffics in tail.”

“Plato!” She glanced around, made sure no one had heard her husband’s lunatic ramblings. “The lobster’s for us, silly. Rufus had a hundred of them flown in fresh from Nova Scotia. It’s amazing. Each year the hospital staff appreciation dinner gets bigger and better.”

“And each year Andrew Cleeford gets closer to retirement.”

“This has nothing to do with hospital politics. Rufus is already on the board of directors.”

“Think about it, Cal. The chairmanship. You think that’s not the apple of his eye? The culmination of his career? He’s no spring chicken, you know.”

Cal squinted at her husband from beneath lowered eyebrows. They weren’t really as bushy as she thought. To Plato, they didn’t mar her prettiness at all. Except when she squinted. “Sometimes you can be so... cynical!”

She was right. Plato knew he was being hard on the guy. After all, before the dinner, Thorndyke had publicly donated ten thousand dollars to the hospital’s drug rehabilitation center. Some DEA official had lectured about the drug menace, focusing on a Mexican product called “sleeper” that was hooking a lot of local kids. And Rufus’s seed money bore fruit through impromptu donations from his wealthy friends.

So Plato kept his mouth shut as he followed Cal around the Thorndyke grounds, chatting amiably with dozens of doctors, nurses, and other hospital staffers.

“Plato and Cal Marley,” he heard repeatedly, “an obstetrician and a pathologist. Plato brings them in, and Cal wheels them out.”

Ho, ho, ho.

Worse yet were the inevitable questions. “What made your wife want to become a pathologist?”

“She eats people,” Plato finally replied to Mrs. Cleeford.

The wife of the venerable board chairman patted his hand and nodded sagely. “We all need people, son. She just has to find another outlet — church, social organizations. I’m a member of the Buffalo League Women’s Auxiliary.”

Cal dragged him to the stables before he could comment. A few miles of old Sanchez’ bone-jarring canter brought him back down to earth. He’d never be sarcastic or cynical ever again. He’d eat salads and pine nuts and herbs and sunflower seeds and grass. If only someone would help him off the horse.

“Wasn’t that a glorious ride?” Cal asked, holding Sanchez’ bridle.

Cautiously, Plato lifted one leg from a stirrup. His backbone had been pulverized, ground to a fine powder, then mixed into a heavy concrete. He toppled to the ground.

Shuffling along the path through the woods, Cal stopped suddenly, squeezing his hand. Beads of sweat broke out on her pale forehead. “I don’t feel so good.”

“You don’t look so good, either.” Plato pulled her arm across his shoulder. “Come on. Maybe you should lie down inside.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

She hobbled beside him for a while, then stopped and winced. “God! It’s my stomach, Plato. I’ve never hurt this bad before.”

The hairs on the back of his neck came to attention. A tiny voice in his head spoke: “Acute appendicitis. Perhaps accompanied by peritonitis. In situations like these, time is of the essence.”

He swung a surprised Cal into his arms, thankful for once that she ate chipmunk food. They bounced down the path until he jolted to a halt.

“Plato, dear, you’re sweet,” she gasped. “But I don’t feel that bad. Just put me down, okay?”

He nodded dumbly, slipped her back onto her feet. She turned and gaped at the clearing. Up the hill, the huge form of Rufus Thorndyke blunted the horizon. Several guests were lying down as well — sprawled on the grass or picnic tables or lawn chairs. A few walking wounded rushed from person to person, checking pulses and palpating abdomens. An ambulance keened from the driveway.

The couple’s eyes met.

“Food poisoning,” they whispered in unison. “The crab Louis.”

Plato’s aversion to seafood had been vindicated.

The doors marked intensive CARE UNIT — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL only sighed open like the gate-stones of a crypt. After helping the crab victims into their respective ambulances, Plato had tucked Cal into bed at home. She would page him if she felt worse.

He hobbled into the hospital sanctuary just as the doors closed, nearly dismembering him with their ponderous weight. He paused to catch his breath, still stiff from the afternoon’s glorious ride. While his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he heard the soft, thrusting rhythm of ventilators, the muted mechanical bleeps of monitors, and the low sigh of cool, dry air from invisible outlets.

Intensive care, Plato thought. Where lives are saved or lost and doctors are schooled in cynicism.

“Excuse me, sir, can I please see—” The voice was as harsh and sharp as a splinter beneath a fingernail. A penlight stabbed

Plato’s eyes while a hand frisked his coat for an I.D. badge.

“Oh, it’s you. Marley.” Mrs. Leeman, head nurse of the ICU. Tough, experienced, and brutally competent, her only fault was a bit of night blindness. “Come right in.”

“I came to see Mr. Thorndyke.”

She led him past a row of glass-walled rooms to the nursing station. Deftly, she spun a gleaming carousel of stainless steel and blue vinyl binders. “You were at his party last night?”

“Yeah. But I don’t like crab.” Plato retrieved Thorndyke’s chart and flipped through it. There was nothing unusual about it; he’d half expected a special red binder, stars and stenciled warning labels: “Authorized Personnel Only — Government Clearance GP-10 or Higher!”

Mrs. Leeman showed him to Thorndyke’s cubicle, directly across from the nursing station. The huge man was almost invisible beneath a web of machines, tubes, wires, and cables. Overhead, CRT’s traced the frantic heart rhythm, lowering blood pressure, and measured sighs of mechanical respiration. But one look at the flabby, waxen face told far more than numbers on a screen.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before. Doctor—?”

In the murky shadows, Plato hadn’t noticed the room’s other occupant. Gage, the gastroenterologist. White hair manicured to perfection, navy sports jacket, freshly pressed gray pants, and a sharply knotted tie. Looking at him, you’d never guess it was two A.M.

Plato looked down at his rumpled, coffee-stained lab coat and tennis shoes. Tailoring, he told himself again.

“Plato Marley,” he replied, awkwardly shaking hands across the bed. Glancing down at Thorndyke’s pale form, he wondered: Is someone awake in there, listening, aware?

He hoped not.

“I was at the party last night,” he continued. “I wondered how Mr. Thorndyke was doing. After I got home, I did some thinking. Some of his symptoms seemed a bit unusual. I’d like to talk to you about it.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Gage nodded his head and led the way to a door marked PHYSICIANS’ CONFERENCE ROOM. “You look familiar—”

“I did my residency here several years ago, then did an infertility fellowship in Chicago,” he replied, taking a seat at the table. Blazing fluorescent light bounced painfully from white walls, pearl file cabinets, beige carpeting. Some obscure kidney function calculation was scribbled on the whiteboard. In the corner, a skeleton wearing a top hat browsed through a faded copy of the Wall Street Journal.

“Marley, Marley,” Gage whispered to himself, as though he were turning through a dictionary. “Seems I’ve heard that name before.”

“My wife’s a doctor as well,” Plato said. “One of the hospital pathologists. She’s in forensics. Tecumseh County coroner.”

Gage’s eyebrows blossomed in surprise. “Do they really need a forensic pathologist in TC? How long since there’s been a murder there?”

“A people murder?” Plato shrugged. “Not since Cal took office. But she had a hit and run on a Holstein just last week. We’ve got the body down at the lab. Well, part of it, anyway.”

“Seneca General isn’t exactly a center of academic medicine, either,” the digestive specialist agreed. “But we provide pretty good care here. And this is a good area to raise a family.”

His smile dissolved suddenly. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but Jan Thorndyke is my daughter.” Gage grimaced, raised his voice. “That makes Rufus my son-in-law, though at his age, it’s hard to think of him that way. We were in college together, back east...”

The door burst open suddenly, and a stocky figure in white blew into the room.

“Thanks for calling me, Dr. Gage! Sorry I’m late.” The intern pulled a ragged mop of hair back from her forehead. Panting, she explained, “I got a dump admission from Urology. It took two hours. I got here as soon as I could.”

Gage chuckled and pulled out a chair. “That’s quite all right. Have a seat. Linda Zamiella, I’d like to present Dr. Plato Marley. He’s an infertility specialist, but he was at the Thorndyke party last night and thought we might need his help.”

They shook hands. Zamiella’s white laboratory coat was spotless. The only flaw in her appearance was a menagerie of dogeared journal articles spilling from her pockets.

“I was explaining that some of Mr. Thorndyke’s symptoms seemed unusual for food poisoning,” Plato told her, ignoring Gage’s sarcastic introduction. “It’s hard to put a finger on it, but his case seemed different. Excruciating abdominal pain, far worse than the other victims. Pain on swallowing. Later, as you know, he became delirious.”

“There’ve been some cardiogram changes as well,” Linda added, tugging a tattered heart monitor tracing from her pocket. She handed it to Gage. “I think Dr. Marley’s right. I saw a lot of the other victims last night. Most of them have already gone home. The few who were hospitalized are doing well. Except Mr. Thorndyke.”

“And Felicia Martinez, Thorndyke’s maid. She’s even worse.” Gage frowned, then glanced at Plato. “Linda hopes to become a specialist in digestive diseases, like me. What’s your impression, Dr. Zamiella?”

Linda paused for a moment, eyes unfocused. She recited as if from a formula, “Mr. Thorndyke is a sixty-year-old male in otherwise good health who presents with sudden onset of abdominal pain and dysphagia, eventually lapsing into delirium. Signs of shock have been accompanied by an abnormal heart rhythm, but peritoneal signs are absent. My impression is that Mr. Thorndyke’s symptoms cannot be explained solely by spoiled food.”

“What can account for them?” Gage challenged.

Linda shrugged and knuckled her forehead. “What about some kind of non-bacterial poisoning, like mercury?” She dredged her capacious pockets again. Like hamsters pouching food, interns often tuck entire reference libraries into their coats. “I just read an article last month in the Archives. Abdominal pain, nausea, vomiting, and shock are common symptoms.”

Gage chewed a fingernail. “But where would Mr. Thorndyke have received such a dose of mercury? Even hatters don’t see much of it these days.”

“It’s common in some insecticides. And, well...”

“Besides, Linda, how are our patient’s kidney functions?”

She squirmed. “Umm, well—”

The old physician touched her arm gently. “It’s a good thought, but it doesn’t seem likely. At his age, those nonspecific changes could mean just about anything. Excessive stress. An underlying medical condition.”

He snapped the chart shut like a judge rapping a gavel, then delivered his verdict. “I think our diagnosis is very simple. Food poisoning, a la the crab Louis. Just like all the other patients.”

“Has he been worked up for an infection?” Plato asked, feeling like an intern again. Even though Seneca General was a community hospital, Gage had a national reputation.

The old physician laughed. “There’s nothing he hasn’t been worked up for. It’s a race with only one loser. Every specialist in the hospital’s afraid he’ll screw up. Poor Thorndyke’s going to die from loss of blood with all these tests we’re doing.”

Mrs. Leeman cracked the door open. “Dr. Gage?”

The two conferred for a moment in low whispers. As the nurse closed the door again, Gage sank into a chair, put his head in his hands.

Linda’s wide forehead wrinkled with concern. “What is it, Dr. Gage?”

“Apparently, the cardiologist also wondered about the strange heart rhythm.” Gage’s pale eyes were focused somewhere beyond the far wall. “He ordered a toxin study on Mr. Thorndyke and Felicia Martinez.”

On the table, his bony hands clutched the air. “Both of them are suffering from massive arsenic toxicity.”

Over the public address system came a woman’s carefully measured voice. “Code Blue, Intensive Care Unit. Code Blue, Intensive Care Unit.”

They scrambled from the room.

“Thorndyke was flat-line when we got there, and he never came back,” Plato told Cal later that morning. “We tried everything. There wasn’t even fibrillation. He was long gone.”

Even though she didn’t know Thorndyke very well, Cal was visibly shaken. She was camped out in an old pair of sweats on the living room sofa; the color in her face matched the vanilla pillowslip.

A pharmacopoeia of stomach remedies was scattered on the coffee table. Propping herself gingerly on an elbow, she closed her eyes and pointed randomly at the drugs. Opening them again, she chose a bottle of pink fluid, swigged a few gulps, then sank back with a groan.

“Why don’t you go to someone about that?” Plato asked. He hated seeing sick people. Just watching her made him queasy.

“I’m doing fine,” Cal sighed. Her bright brown eyes had faded to a shade somewhere between dirt and old asphalt. Beneath them, her cheeks were dark hollows. Frizzled brown hair crackled when she moved.

“If that’s what you call fine, I’d hate to be one of your patients.”

“That’s the beauty of pathology,” she said, with a grin that was more like a grimace. “None of my patients whines about my ‘setting a poor example.’ Besides, staph food poisoning is self-limited, as long as dehydration is controlled. I’m maintaining my fluids.”

“Yeah. With Pepto-Bismol and Mylanta. Bismuth and aluminum and magnesium. You’re going to rust.”

“Lucky dog. Just because you don’t like seafood.” Cal sobered suddenly. “What about the maid — what was her name?”

“Felicia Martinez,” he answered. “She did all right, at first. For a while, we almost thought she was going to make it.”

He shivered, remembering.

“What’s wrong?”

“The last time we shocked her. Right before we lost her for good.” Plato frowned, trying to picture it. “I’ve never seen it happen before. Her eyes — they opened up, and she was awake. Wide awake. Just for a second or two.”

He shoved a few bottles aside and sat on the coffee table. “She grabbed the arm of the poor intern doing CPR. Grabbed her coat. Looked right into her eyes and started mumbling something. Over and over again.”

“What was it?” Color had suddenly returned to Cal’s face. “Did you hear it? What did she say?”

“Well, it was pretty hard to make out. Something like ‘Chant’ or ‘Chan-ger.’ ”

“She spoke with an accent. Chan...” Cal gasped. “How about ‘Jan’?”

Her husband nodded. “You’re not the first to think of that. There were eight people in that room. Half of them are convinced Felicia was saying ‘Jan.’ I’m not so sure.”

She shook her head. “I can’t see it. To kill her husband that way. Jan just isn’t that kind of person. Is she?”

“Who knows?” he replied. “But it provides a very simple solution. Jan Thorndyke was a pharmacist at the hospital before she met Rufus.”

Cal nodded her head, sank back in the sofa. “But maybe the solution’s a little too simple.”

They were quiet for a while, and Cal’s eyes drifted closed. Watching her in the stillness, Plato heard the soft ticks of the grandfather clock by the fireplace, the gentle hiss of a summer shower on the courtyard outside the open french doors.

A slamming car door interrupted his thoughts. He walked to the front window. A blue and white police cruiser with gold county sheriff’s stars was parked in the drive. Up the walk slumped a redhaired, gray-bearded dwarf in a rumpled mackintosh he wore summer or winter, rain or shine.

Ian Donal Cameron. “Don” when they wanted to irritate him. “Ian” when they didn’t.

Plato opened the door before he could knock.

“Marley, my lad!” Cameron’s teeth gleamed in a tobacco-stained grin.

“Come on in.”

The sheriff doffed his hat inside the doorway, shrugged his coat onto a chair, and scavenged his pockets for a pipe. Lighting it, he glanced at his friend.

“Put on a bit of weight, haven’t you?” he snickered, tapping Plato’s paunch with the back of his hand. The smoke circled his head like fog over a low hill, almost obscuring the bald spot. A frostline of white roots surrounded the peak.

Plato chuckled appreciatively. Ian was a friend of the family, and Plato owed him a favor. Otherwise, the sheriff’s own proportions were easy marks for a witty riposte.

But when Plato was growing up in Seneca, his father and Ian had been partners on the force. Years later, when Plato was a local obstetrician and Cameron was Tecumseh County sheriff, the coroner had died in office. Although Plato wasn’t qualified, he’d temporarily filled the post at Ian’s request. It wasn’t difficult — he signed death certificates and forwarded the tough cases to experts in Seneca.

Cal had been one of those experts. A year later, she and Plato were married. Ian was best man. And that November, she was elected TC’s coroner.

Ian frequently recalled his matchmaking role.

“And how are the two lovebirds today? No, no, I forget. This isn’t a social call.” Long sideburns wagged ferociously as he puffed on his pipe. Walking down the foyer, he peered into the living room. Cal had dragged the blanket over her head. Whispering, Ian observed, “She doesn’t look so well.”

“I know. She’s all right, though.”

“Good.” The old sheriff squared his shoulders, marched across the room, and took Plato’s chair. “Good morning to you, Cal.”

No reply. She was probably asleep. Plato sat on the couch at her feet.

“I’ve come for an official reason today,” the sheriff began, a hint of pride in his voice. He sat forward, eyes glowing brightly. “The Tecumseh County sheriff’s office is handling the investigation of the Thorndyke case. I’d like the coroner’s report as soon as possible.”

From under the blankets came a groan that could have been the furniture settling. Ian frowned.

“Of course, if the county coroner is ill, the assistant county coroner will aid in the investigation,” he conceded.

This was going too fast for Plato. “Assistant? I didn’t know Cal had an assistant.”

“That’s the beauty of it, laddie!” The sheriff stabbed his pipestem at his friend. “You’re the assistant. Don’t you remember? You’ve been part of the office ever since Dr. Eddings passed on.”

“Wait a minute. That was years ago.”

“Of course, if you refuse, I can work with Cal alone on the case. It wouldn’t be like working with a man, but she might be able to help out here and there.”

Plato was still confused. “But I haven’t signed any papers or worked for the coroner’s office in years.” He gasped as Cal’s foot jarred his kidney. Trust a pathologist to locate just the right spot.

“Of course not,” Cameron replied. “You didn’t have to. Cal and I automatically renewed your employment agreement. You’ve been the TC coroner’s assistant for five years now. Didn’t Cal tell you?”

Plato ground his elbow into the soft spot behind her ankle, where the nerve passed through. There was another groan from beneath the pillow.

“Does she always sleep like that?” asked Ian.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” Plato replied sympathetically.

The sheriff shook his head and clucked.

“It’s tough for women these days,” he confided with a wink. He grinned down at Cal’s blanket. “They put so much pressure on themselves to make it in a man’s world. Especially here in the States. I don’t understand it, but it’s probably good for them to try.”

“Teach them a lesson, you mean.”

“Exactly!” Ian beamed in agreement. “They don’t realize how good they had it.”

“In the home.”

“Right!”

Beneath the blanket, Cal’s toe was probing, moving up the spine, hunting for the kidney again. Plato changed tacks. “So how can I help?”

Ian’s forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “Well, this is hardly a typical case of murder.”

“How do you mean?”

He leaned back, crossing his stubby legs. Mud covered the soles of his boots. “I’m sure the spoiled food wasn’t just coincidence. I’ve talked with a few of the doctors at the hospital — because it seemed odd. That they didn’t pick up the arsenic until it was too late. The murderer hoped old Thorndyke’s death would seem like severe food poisoning.”

Plato had been there. It had almost worked.

“So we have to look for someone with that kind of medical expertise.” Ian squinted through the flare of another match. “That’s why I want you or Cal involved. You’ve heard the old saying, ‘Send a thief to catch a thief.’ ”

Plato thought he knew what was coming next.

“I want to start with Thorn-dyke’s son, Homer,” Ian said, flipping through a pocket notebook.

“What about Thorndyke’s wife?” Plato asked, startled.

“Jan?” he mused absently. “Oh, yes, that business with the maid. Mrs. Thorndyke’s in the hospital — she’s not going anywhere.”

“So what’s so special about Homer?”

Cameron slapped his notebook shut, waddled to the door. “I checked up on him. He’s a microbiologist at the medical school. I’m driving up there now.”

He slipped on his coat and turned. “Coming?”

“Gee, Ian, I’d really like to, but—” Plato thought of his office appointments. Sure, the schedule wasn’t that full. Sandy, his partner, could cover.

Still...

“Could you get along without me today? Maybe Wednesday I can find some time. Or this weekend.”

The sheriff stood there for a moment, puffed furiously on his pipe. A smoky thunderhead rose from the bowl. “There’s something else I didn’t want to bring up, laddie...”

He took a deep breath, gestured at the four walls. “Look around this room. Here you have the entire staff of the Tecumseh County sheriff’s office. I have no deputies per se. Technically, as coroner, Cal is a deputy and can even act as sheriff in my absence.”

Cameron sighed. “Maybe someday our commissioners will hire me a deputy. But until now, you two are all I’ve got. There were dozens of people at that party...”

Plato wasn’t buying it. Rufus’s home was outside incorporated city limits. So it was in Ian’s jurisdiction. But the county sheriff could always turn the case over to the state police.

Unfortunately, Ian would never give up. The case would never be solved. They’d lose the next election and be driven from town in disgrace. All three would end up working in some two-bit Jersey doc-in-a-box. Ian would be night security and part-time maintenance. Cleaning toilets and scraping gum from floors.

Clearly, Plato was needed.

“In a minute,” he replied generously. “Just let me get changed.”

He dashed up the stairs, grabbed a clean shirt and tie, ran a comb across his receding hairline, and zipped down to the door. On the way, he caught a glimpse of Cal. She was awake, folding her blanket.

“What are you doing?” Plato asked. “You’re supposed to be sick.”

She flashed a wan smile. “I’ve got an autopsy to do.”

Beardmore Medical College was named after Dr. Elias Beardmore, whose political skills far outpaced his medical abilities. Good land was scarce even during the Depression, so the school was built on the scenic banks of the Tecumseh River. Property there was cheap because every two or three springs the river escaped the banks to claim the valley flat-lands.

Administration occupied the third floor, while computers and research facilities claimed the second. The first floor was mostly classrooms and sump pumps. No one had been in the basement for years.

Homer Thorndyke’s door was open, but a bank of files blocked most of the office from view. The hiss of a ventilator was accompanied by a sliding noise, then a thump. The sweet smell of ether made Plato slightly nauseated.

Cameron knocked hesitantly. “Dr. Thorndyke?”

“Yes?”

Slip-thump.

“Come on back here, please. I’m rather busy at the moment.”

Around the corner, Homer Thorndyke sat in his wheelchair, fiddling with something like a paper cutter. Or a tiny guillotine. A rush of disgusting animal lab memories swept over Plato. The sheriff stepped around the corner before his partner could warn him. On the counter beside the sink, eight rat bodies formed a neat line. Eight tiny heads were stacked in a gruesome pyramid nearby. A ninth subject slumbered beneath the blade.

Slip-thump. This time, the blade failed to make a clean slice. Instead, the animal squirmed sluggishly, like a sleepwalker with nightmares.

“Damn!” Thorndyke slapped the blade up and down again, driving it home. He tossed the severed parts into a waste can like a master chef who’d found a bad mushroom. “Cheap Japanese blades. A clean kill is essential to this experiment. I just sharpened them, too...”

Still ignoring his visitors, he packed the sixteen specimens into a plastic casserole and stuffed it in the freezer. Gloves and goggles were tossed away, and he slid his wheelchair over to the sink.

While Thorndyke washed his hands, Plato glanced at the sheriff. He was down in a chair, eyes glazed, skin grayer than fish scales.

Surely, Plato thought, Ian has seen worse during his long career. “Are you all right?”

His voice was a thin squeak, and his Scotsman’s brogue thickened. “I hate rats. I keena why, but they make me sick as a dog.”

Thorndyke finally glanced at them. Dressed in a white coat, with pale skin and chalky hair, he resembled one of his subjects. A thin mustache drooped over his upper lip.

“The county sheriff.” He smiled mockingly. “How good of you to come. Has the Animal Protection Fellowship requested another tour of the dog lab?”

“No, Dr. Thorndyke. This is about something completely different.” Cameron bobbed to his feet like an underinflated balloon. But his voice was steadier. “It’s about your father.”

“My father?” Thorndyke shrugged. “Then I wouldn’t say it’s very different at all. We’re all animals, sheriff. Some more than others.”

“Then it wouldn’t surprise you to learn that your father was murdered.” The sheriff watched Thorndyke through narrowed eyes.

The reaction was disappointing. Another shrug. “No. I assure you, surprise would be my last reaction. I was at the party myself, you know. And I heard from the hospital. Are you planning to indict the caterer?”

From the boredom in his voice, his level tone, the researcher might have been discussing the Gram stain with a pair of high school students.

“Hardly.” The sheriff retrieved his pipe, gestured at the refrigerator with it. “Your father was poisoned, just like one of your friends there. He didn’t die from spoiled mayonnaise. We think the food was intentionally contaminated, in order to cover the real poisoning.”

Homer whistled appreciatively. “Brilliant! Author, author!”

“You mentioned that you were at the party—” Cameron said. He struck a match and dipped it to his pipe bowl.

“Yes, I was. Along with about seventy-five others. Have you questioned them?” His smile faded. “Oh. By the way, I wouldn’t light that if I were you. Unless you want to blow us all to kingdom come.”

The match was quickly extinguished. “I’ve checked on most of them already. But no one else has a very good motive, I’m afraid.”

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t have one, either. It’s very unlikely that I’m mentioned in my father’s will. But we keep up appearances.”

Plato opened his mouth at last. “The two of you weren’t close?”

Thorndyke’s eyebrows raised imperiously. “And who are you?”

“Dr. Plato Marley,” Ian answered. “Representing the coroner’s office in this case.”

Thorndyke harrumphed and turned to his bench. Red spray patterns marred the white linoleum surface. With a damp rag, he scrubbed vigorously while he talked. “Close? Never. But there was no animosity between us. In fact, there was nothing at all between us.”

He looked up, met Plato’s gaze with pale pink irises. “If you’re asking if I killed my father, the answer is no.”

With both hands, he lifted a thigh and shifted it in the canvas seat. “I wish I had. Arsenic would be an excellent technique. Painful, too. The trouble is, I don’t have enough feeling left to have killed him. Gentlemen, good day.”

Cameron stopped with one hand on the door. “The wife, of course, is the obvious suspect.”

After a long pause, the researcher replied. There was warmth and bitterness in his tone. “Jan? I don’t think she’s capable. Besides, she and my father were very... close.”

“There are rumors about your father and the Martinez woman. She died last night as well, you know.”

“Yes, I heard.” For the first time, there was a tinge of regret in his voice. “Such a shame. So you think that perhaps Jan poisoned them both? Out of jealousy? Ridiculous!”

“How long was Miss Martinez with your father?” the sheriff asked. They stepped back inside the office.

“Five years or so. Since just after Mother died.” He considered. “Perhaps there was something between them at first. But when Jan came along, everything changed. More likely, Felicia killed my father out of jealousy.”

“Clumsy of her to kill herself as well.” Cameron sucked absently on the unlit pipe. “How about work? Your father’s company was very successful. Might he have made some enemies along the way?”

“Mardyke Pharmaceuticals? Successful?” The microbiologist snorted. “At selling health foods and vitamins, maybe. But they’ll never make it in the big league. With the lousy researchers they have, it’s a miracle they’ve survived this long. But somehow they’re already showing quite a profit. Martin Callahan must be one sly businessman.”

“Callahan?” The notebook came out again.

“That man could squeeze carrot juice from a stone. He was in health foods when he conned Father into investing.” Thorndyke sighed wistfully, picturing grant dollars and pharmaceutical research sponsorships. “Two years ago, they tried coming out with a new drug. Synthetic painkiller/anti-anxiety combination. Called Hypnocose. But it was a little too successful.”

“Too successful?” Plato asked. This was a new concept for him.

Thorndyke nodded. “People liked it a little too much. Know what I mean? The FDA squashed it. Let me tell you, the market’s tight for new products right now. The FDA approval process is amazingly tortuous, especially for drugs like Hypnocose.”

He glanced down at his watch. “Two thirty! I’m already half an hour late.”

As they backed out the door, Cameron apologized. “Sorry to have taken so much time, doctor.”

“Not at all. If you have any more questions...”

Plato stopped Ian in the hallway. “Wait. I want to look for something.”

After navigating the maze of corridors from several decades of building additions, they stopped. The bulletin board read:

A number of articles were tacked to the board, including a paper by Homer Thorndyke, Ph.D. The work was titled, “Response of Staphylococcal Pneumonia to Gamma Globulin in the Splenectomized Rat.”

“What’s it mean?” The sheriff frowned.

“Seems our friend is playing with the same bacteria that ruined Thorndyke’s party.”

Back at the hospital, Jan Thorndyke had a visitor. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Gage is seeing her, and he’s asked for privacy,” the charge nurse told Plato and Ian. She had a harried look. The shift was nearly over.

They took seats in the visitors’ lounge. Near the window, a gray-haired man snoozed in a recliner. His shoes lay beside the chair, and a pink toe poked through one of his white socks. A fat man with a face like melted rubber sifted through the ancient magazines in the rack. Oprah Winfrey barked from a television hanging on the wall.

“What do you think about young Thorndyke?” Ian asked softly. “Rather interesting — his mention of arsenic.”

Rubber-face scowled at them, then took his seat.

“Possibly,” Plato conceded. “On the other hand, he may have guessed when you pointed to the rats.”

“Oh. Rat poison.” Ian grinned sheepishly. “Stupid of me, wasn’t it?”

“Not really. He might have figured it out anyway. He seems to be very intelligent.”

The sheriff sat back, scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Belligerent bastard, though. He sure did get friendly all of a sudden, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. When you asked him about Jan. Do you think he suspects her?”

Ian shrugged. “I do know one thing. He doesn’t want us suspecting her.”

They sat watching the screen until a commercial came on.

“You have to wonder what makes a son hate his father so,” Ian mused. “It isn’t natural.”

“Neither is murder.”

“I might do a little research into that lad’s past.” Out came the black notebook again.

An angry shriek came from Jan Thorndyke’s room, accompanied by a throaty growl. It sounded like a bobcat arguing with a bear. A nurse rushed to the room, listened, then returned to her desk.

Plato recalled the only time Homer had volunteered information. “What about the business partner? What did you find out about that?”

“Dead end. The man was in San Diego on Sunday.” Cameron scratched a bedraggled sideburn. “And the killer had to be at the party, right?”

“How else could he give the arsenic at just the right time — when everyone else was getting sick from spoiled food?” Plato frowned. “Of course, it could be a wild coincidence. How about some random killer lacing store-bought medications?”

“We thought of that, checked all his medicines when we checked the dishes. So far, everything’s negative.”

The charge nurse appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Thorndyke will see you now.”

There was no answer to their knock. “Mrs. Thorndyke?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Sheriff Cameron and Dr. Marley. May we ask you a few questions?”

There was a pause, then a quavery answer. “Come in.”

It was hard to find a chair. Scarce pinpoints of light trickled through the Venetian blinds to throw a pattern of dots across the sheets. Jan Thorndyke looked even more fragile in the thin hospital gown than she had at the party. Wispy blonde hair hung in disarray about her angular face. She fiddled nervously with the plastic line running between the IV bag and her arm.

Tissues were flung in a pile on the nightstand beside a vase of red roses. Her eyes were puffy and glistening.

“You are aware that your husband’s death wasn’t accidental.”

“My doctor told me about it — about the arsenic,” Jan replied quietly. “Who would want to kill Rufus?”

“That’s what we’re here to ask you, Mrs. Thorndyke.” Ian glanced at the nightstand. “Nice flowers.”

“Hmm? Oh, those.” She looked away quickly, tipped her head back. “My father just brought them to me.”

“First off, I want to say how sorry we all are — about your husband’s death.” The sheriff took a seat beside Jan’s bed, placed his hand over hers. For a moment, Plato forgot she was Ian’s primary suspect. “Did your husband mention any problems here at the hospital? Or at his company? Unhappy employees, people who were harassing him?”

“No. There was nothing like that.” The sun was setting, and the dots on her bed were disappearing, one by one. “Rufus was very well-liked, both here and at Mardyke.”

“Money problems?”

“None. He was doing very well.” She brushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead. “The company was close to releasing its newest drug. Rufus was very excited.”

“Was he?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, Martin Callahan had us over on Saturday for dinner and a swim. To celebrate.” Jan smiled briefly. “Rufus failed at medical school, you know. He tells — told — everyone about that. Still, he was trying to make a contribution. To medicine.”

“Speaking of medicine,” Plato interrupted, “did your husband get along very well with his son?”

“He tried. Believe me, he tried.” She sighed. “He’s made more contributions to the school than you can imagine. And he was always calling Homer, asking him to social functions, being interested. And always getting the cold shoulder.”

“What caused the falling-out in the first place?”

“I don’t know. I asked Rufus about it once.” The widow shivered. “I got the impression it was something he’d rather not talk about. Other than that, we didn’t have any secrets.”

“A good marriage, then,” Ian concluded.

“Yes,” she agreed emphatically. “Two years now, and it still felt like our honeymoon. We used to joke about it. How it would last forever...”

“You have our sympathy, ma’am.” The sheriff patted her hand. “Your father — he’s probably a great source of comfort—”

Jan smiled patronizingly, like a True Believer. “He never understood. About Rufus and me. My father and Rufus were great friends. Until we fell in love. Daddy was furious. Jealous, I think. I tried to ignore it.”

Jan stopped. Fiddling with the tape on her arm, she looked at them. Tears welled up and threatened to spill.

“Three nights ago — the Friday before the party — Daddy came to visit. He implied...” She bit her lip, took a deep breath. “He implied that Rufus was having an affair. I was very upset. Rufus came home late, called Daddy, and told him he wasn’t welcome in our house any more. So of course he wasn’t at the party.”

She twisted the IV line back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. “Today I thought he’d come to apologize. But it was just more of the same.”

“This must be very difficult for you,” Ian said.

Jan nodded and blinked quickly, but failed to catch an escaping tear.

The door swung open, and the charge nurse poked her head inside. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over. I’ll have to ask you gentlemen to leave.”

“If you want a good crab Louis, don’t skimp on the mayonnaise,” Mrs. Reiss preached. “These days, so many people are concerned with lowering fats that they use too little. And the green pepper can be overpowering.”

“It certainly can,” Cal agreed.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Reiss fiddled with her hearing aid until feedback squealed from her ear.

“I said, it certainly can,” Cal shouted.

She was looking much better. Plato was amazed at what a couple of good autopsies could do.

It promised to be a long interview, though. He had been up all night with a rough delivery that led to a Caesarean section. His brain was an expanding glacier inside his fragile head. The shouting match would crack his skull like an egg.

Plato glanced out the window of Mrs. Reiss’s kitchen. Tuesday morning had dawned bright and clear. At the back of the yard, a whitewashed fence marked the edge of the cliff high above the Tecumseh River. Just inside it, a perfectly tended garden glittered with dew. Beans, tomatoes, and romaine lettuce stood in tight ranks, as though waiting for dress inspection. Even the violets and daffodils fringing the yard were meticulously arranged.

The caterer’s kitchen was equally precise. Two ovens, wide oak counters, and stainless steel sinks glistened under bright fluorescent lights. A menagerie of pots and pans with burnished copper bottoms hung from a rack over the window. Beside the deep freeze gleamed a collection of knives that surely rivaled Galen’s.

“Is there any way that the mayonnaise you used Sunday could have been spoiled?” Plato cringed, waiting for her reply.

“I understand, Dr. Marley, that you have to ask that question. Still, I tolerate it only to preserve the good name of Reiss’s Nice Foods. It’s a scandal for my business.” She pressed a plump hand to her chest and sighed. “You can’t imagine how embarrassed I was Sunday night when people started getting ill. I hope you catch the scoundrel who’s responsible.”

From the tone of her voice, she seemed to feel that apprehending a murderer was purely incidental.

“Still, we all make mistakes,” Cal said. “Sometimes the unavoidable happens — power failures, for instance. What about last Thursday? Wasn’t there a thunderstorm then?”

“Oh, my dear! Of course I couldn’t make the mayonnaise on Thursday! You know that.”

Cal gazed at her blankly.

“Under those conditions, the mayonnaise simply won’t bind.” Mrs. Reiss’s pencil-thin brows formed a V on her forehead. “But then maybe you’ve never tried making mayonnaise during a thunderstorm.”

“I’ve been lucky that way, I guess,” Cal admitted, casting a warning glance at her husband. She hadn’t made mayonnaise during snow, heat, or gloom of night, either.

“Ordinarily, I make fresh mayonnaise on Thursdays because Francella brings the eggs straight from the hens that day.” She touched Cal’s arm. “I’ve found that the freshest eggs make the smoothest mayonnaise. In fact, when Francella delivers them, they’re often still warm and there’s no need to bring them to room temperature.”

“So you made the mayonnaise on Friday,” Plato concluded.

“No. Friday was the University Club luncheon. I didn’t need mayonnaise for that, so I made it Saturday morning.” Mrs. Reiss thought for a moment. “Even if my refrigerator was off a few degrees, mayonnaise doesn’t spoil that quickly. And it certainly didn’t smell bad.”

“Staph food poisoning can be very subtle,” Cal explained. “Especially with such a flavorful food as crab Louis.”

“My, my, my. This is certainly complicated.”

“Is there any way someone could have tampered with it Saturday? Did you leave the house at all?”

“No, I didn’t,” she assured them. “I’m certain of it.”

“You had visitors?” Cal asked.

Plato was shocked. Stern, broad shouldered, competent, and practical though she was, Mrs. Reiss actually blushed.

“Well, I...” For once, she was at a loss for words. She wrung her hands feverishly across the broad expanse of apron covering her middle. Finally she took a deep breath and explained. “He started calling on me when I took sick.”

“Who did?”

“Dr. Gage. It’s my stomach, you see. It’s so sensitive. Well, he was just wonderful — no other doctor made house calls any more. So I invited him over one Saturday, and it got to be a regular thing. Every Saturday afternoon for two years now.”

The portly cook sighed wistfully.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” she begged. “It’s been our secret for a long, long time. Not even Leonard knows.”

“Leonard?” Cal asked.

“My son. You’ve probably read his articles in the Herald Press. He’s the medical editor,” she boasted.

“Yes, now I remember,” Cal said. “He interviewed me once about Seneca General’s pathology department. Strange that he hasn’t asked us about the case yet.”

“The life of a newspaperman,” Leonard’s mother chuckled. “He was very upset when I called to tell him what had happened. He’s been away this weekend, down at the capital. Looking at substances. Wait. Is that what he said? That’s awfully strange.”

“I imagine there are quite a few substances down there in the capital,” Plato agreed.

“I think it’s all a fable. He’s got a girl down there. I’m sure of it.”

“How about Sunday?” Cal asked. “Did anyone help you with the catering?”

“Just the maid — Felicia. She always helps when I cater at the Thorndykes’. Such a tragedy. Of course, she wasn’t involved.”

“Not likely,” Plato admitted.

The caterer turned to Cal again. “Now that we’ve finished, dear, there’s a dish of mine that you must try on Plato. I call it Sauce Simpliste because it’s so easy to make. Wonderful with beef dishes. I’ve got the recipe written down here somewhere.”

She led them to her living room and riffled through a drawer in the television stand. “Here it is, here it is. I want to submit it to the Grande Cuisine Home Cooking Show. Have you seen it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Cal confessed.

“Then I have to lend you one of my tapes.” On the shelf above the TV squatted a new VCR. Mrs. Reiss patted it proudly. “My Leonard bought it for me. We have the same kinds of VCR’s, stereos, and televisions. Even the same kind of cars. That way, Leonard can fix them when something goes wrong. He’s quite handy.”

Plato sighed. Years from now he and Cal would be discovered rooted to the floor, cobwebs swaddling their ankles and knees, Mrs. Reiss’s filibuster still in full swing.

Miraculously, the telephone rang, and they bolted for the door.

“Thank you for the tape. And the recipe,” Cal called.

“Certainly,” the caterer replied with a wave. “Come back again if you have any questions. Or just to talk...”

As they closed the door, Mrs. Reiss’s hearing aid gave a farewell squeal.

“This won’t take long,” Cal assured her husband. “Turn left here.”

Plato complied. “I don’t understand why we have to do this at all. What’s Ian up to? Why can’t he handle this?”

“He’s busy getting depositions from the guests,” she answered. “Callahan gave his statement at the courthouse this morning. But Ian wanted us to drop by the plant, just to get an impression.”

Mardyke Pharmaceuticals was a sprawling one-level brick and granite complex at the end of a mostly vacant industrial park. From its exterior, Mardyke’s prosperity was obvious. Perfectly manicured lawns, rolling hills, and shapely hedgerows were surrounded by a ten foot chain link fence topped with barbed wire. All around the grounds was the Mardyke trademark, an interlocking M and D.

The guard waved them in at the gate. As they drove the battered Nova down to the visitors’ lot, Plato lusted for a car with air conditioning. Black asphalt gathered the midday heat, focusing it on the underside of the car, where it passed through the seats to scorch their backs and legs.

At the main entrance, they were rescued by a wash of cool, dry air. The foyer had a polished slate floor and rough sandstone walls. Cal’s heels echoed in the darkness as the pair navigated the cave to a pink marble reception area.

“Drs. Plato and Calista Marley?” asked a platinum blonde receptionist. When they nodded, she rose. “This way, please.”

Plush pile carpeting replaced the slate, and tastefully neutral paintings under track lights lined the corridor. At the end of the hall, their guide opened a door. “Mr. Callahan will see you now.”

The chairman of Mardyke Pharmaceuticals stood with his back to the door. He pretended to admire the view through tinted windows that made the outside look cloudy, cool, and inviting.

When people want to make an entrance and can’t, they try the next best thing. Martin Callahan spun around gracefully.

“Ah, Dr. Marley. And Dr. Marley.” Circumnavigating his desk took him a while, so Plato and Cal met him halfway and shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you both. Have a seat.”

They sat in a pair of matching chairs covered in a surprisingly supple black leather. Callahan scrutinized them across the vast teak desk. Though their chairs were comfortable, his visitors had to tip their heads back to look up at him. A standing halogen lamp behind him cast a halo over his head, making it hard to read his eyes.

“Sheriff Cameron explained the purpose of our visit,” Cal began.

“Well, yes and no. The sheriff explained that you needed to talk to me concerning Rufus’s death. But I don’t see that I have much to add. I wasn’t even there at the time.” Though Callahan had a boyish face, Plato placed him in his mid-forties. Sleek black hair like an otter, and some of the mannerisms, too. His grave concern seemed artificial, like the spray that held his hair in place.

“You’ve already given your statement to Sheriff Cameron,” Cal explained. “But we wanted to talk to you in a less formal setting, perhaps get your impressions on a few things. We hope to learn a little more about Mr. Thorndyke from the people who knew him best.”

“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. Rufus was a very good man, and I was proud to be associated with him.”

“How long had you known him?”

“Just three years. I met him at a health care conference down in San Diego, shortly before my old company folded. He had always been interested in health foods, holistic healing, that sort of thing.” Callahan chuckled. “We had some very interesting conversations. A couple of months after disaster struck my company, I gave him a call. He invited me up here to talk things over.”

He spread his hands to encompass the office, the building, the grounds. “Our partnership was quite successful. Of course, the market is much more open here. And Mardyke does much more than health foods now.”

“Strange,” Cal commented. “I never knew Rufus was into health foods.”

“Neither did most people. But he was a closet fanatic. It was our little secret.” He adjusted a gold cufflink. “People would frown upon a hospital board member who held those kinds of alternative health beliefs.”

Interestingly put. To Plato, it almost sounded like a religion.

“You weren’t at the party?” Cal asked.

“No, I wasn’t.” He sighed regretfully. “I was in California on business. I’d planned to come later in the evening, but the plane was delayed. Perhaps if I had been there...”

Plato could picture it. Rufus Thorndyke lying on the field like a corpulent Arthur while this holistic Merlin made passes over his face and stuffed his mouth with roots and berries.

“Was there any trouble with business? Disgruntled employees? Money problems?”

“Money was the least of our worries. For the third year in a row, the company’s revenues have continued to grow.” He shook his head sadly. “As for disgruntled employees, I’m afraid that’s very unlikely. Rufus was something of a silent partner. He almost never visited the plant. We’d meet informally, generally at my house. The day-to-day routine was left to me.”

“He and Jan visited you the day before the party—” Plato prompted.

“Yes.” Callahan frowned momentarily. “A celebration. Our research department has found a ‘loophole modification.’ With a subtle alteration, we can legally manufacture a certain very popular drug still under patent. It could be a big breakthrough.”

“And that was the last time you saw Rufus?”

He nodded. “We had a pool-side dinner. I’m something of a chef myself, though not of Mrs. Reiss’s caliber.”

“I see.” Cal smiled apologetically. “This may seem an offensive question, but what were the terms of the contract? Your answer is purely voluntary.”

“Oh, believe me, I have no trouble answering that,” Callahan replied. “There was no survivorship clause. Rufus’s shares reverted to his widow upon his death.”

That night, Plato was energizing Salisbury steak/broccoli/cheddarmac combination dinners when the telephone rang. He didn’t even hear it. Their microwave had crossed the Atlantic on the Mayflower. It had no light, the timer was broken, and the fan sounded like a jackhammer. Cal took the call in the other room.

“What’s up?” Plato asked when she returned to the table.

“It was Ian,” Cal replied. She removed the plastic lid from her dinner. The broccoli had apparently caught fire during reentry. It was smoking, and there was a charred hole in the dish. Frost still adorned most of the steak. She glanced at her husband. “We need a new micro-wave.”

“What did he want?” Plato replied. Through a freak accident, his dinner had come out perfect. “I can do yours again if you’d like.”

“I’d rather not.” Cal’s lip curled in disgust as she sawed the broccoli and melted plastic from the remainder of her meal. “Leonard Reiss was in an accident.”

“You’re kidding.” From her nonchalant tone, Plato honestly thought she was. But then, it was hard to tell with Cal. When she was really famished, very little could distract her. It was ten o’clock, and they had just finished their regular work at the hospital. “Is he all right?”

“Moderate concussion,” she mumbled through a mouthful of macaroni. “Hasn’t waked up yet. Wrecked his car coming down Sandy Ridge from his mother’s house after dinner. Sheriff was thinking it might be related.”

“Maybe he was just in a hurry to leave,” Plato said. “Any sign of tampering?”

“Plus-minus,” Cal replied. With the butt of her knife, she hammered her fork into the steak and gnawed it like a Popsicle. “The brake fluid was pretty low. Air in the lines. But the lines themselves were intact. Ian thinks someone might have messed with the master cylinder.”

“But why would they want to kill Leonard Reiss? His writing’s bad, but that’s true for most of the Herald Press.”

“Guess again.”

Crunching his broccoli, he considered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Of course! Mrs. Reiss drives exactly the same kind of car. She told us.”

“Bingo. The sheriff asked for a state cop to guard her. Seems she might be very important to this case.” Cal frowned at her steaksicle. “This is really awful.”

With a grunt of resignation, she slipped it into the micro-wave, holding the power button down for a minute or so. The meat emerged steaming, juicy, and appetizing.

The phone rang again, but Cal just placed it inside the refrigerator. It bleated faintly like a lost sheep. Plato rose to answer it.

“No!” Cal ordered. “Whatever it is, it can wait. If the hospital wants you, they’ll use your pager.”

While she wolfed the rest of her meal, Plato summarized the interviews with Homer and Jan Thorndyke.

“She seems to have sold you,” Cal noted.

He shrugged. “Maybe. She certainly has the motive — Rufus was worth a few million at last count. And who knows how much the Mardyke stock could bring? But she seemed too upset. It couldn’t be an act.”

“You may be an obstetrician, but you don’t know women,” Cal said. “When we put our minds to it, we can be the best actors in the world.”

“You weren’t there, Cal,” he reminded his wife. “You didn’t talk to her.”

They were at an impasse until the doorbell rang.

Ian again. Plato showed him into the kitchen, asked if he’d eaten.

“No.” He sat at the table, scrutinized Cal’s plate. “But I’ve been trying to trim up a bit.”

“What about you, Ian?” Cal asked. “Are you convinced Jan’s innocent, too?”

He threw his hands up in exasperation. “There are so many suspects in this case, I’m not buying anything yet. I’ve been hoping you might have a bone or two for me. Do you have those autopsy results?”

Cal nodded. “Unfortunately, it’s nothing you don’t already know. Death was due to arsenic in both cases. Analysis of the stomach contents was basically inconclusive — we’re pretty sure the arsenic came in food, rather than a beverage. There’s very little excoriation of the mouth or esophagus. No signs that force was used, no external entry wounds or needle punctures. We can say that the arsenic was taken orally. But that’s about it.”

“So much for modern science,” Ian complained. “I checked up on Callahan — though he doesn’t seem to have a motive. His alibi’s solid. He was in San Diego from Sunday morning until late Sunday evening. He was scheduled to arrive at five thirty, but his plane was delayed in St. Louis.”

“That fits what he told us,” Cal agreed.

“How’s Reiss doing?” Plato asked.

“About the same. Not awake yet. But they seem confident that he’ll pull out of it.”

Cal started. “Ian, is there any possibility that someone was after Leonard? What was he investigating down in the capital?”

“Pretty sharp of you to think of that. The thought had crossed my mind, too. I called his editor at the Herald Press.” The sheriff sighed, put his feet up on a chair. “Nothing doing, though. Something about substance abuse problems in Mexico. Pretty far from home. More likely, someone wanted to kill Mrs. Reiss and got the wrong car. They’re practically identical.”

He brightened. “I did find out something interesting, though. Remember what I said about Homer?”

They nodded.

“Well, I did some research of my own. Down at the library in Seneca.” Ian pulled his beard thoughtfully. “Seems young Homer does have a motive after all. He lost the use of his legs back when he was fifteen. In a water skiing accident on Lake Cantauck. And guess who was driving the boat?”

“Rufus Thorndyke,” Plato answered.

“Right. Worse, he was drunk as a skunk. There was a scandal, but he never was charged.”

“How awful,” Cal whispered softly.

“Do you think he did it?” Plato asked.

Ian shrugged. “Maybe. He’s a microbiologist. He was at the party all day. Plenty of means and opportunity. And all the motive in the world.”

“What about the attempt on Mrs. Reiss, though?” Cal asked. “I mean, in his wheelchair it might be hard to sneak up and drain that brake fluid.”

The sheriff shuddered. “I’ve seen him in action, lass. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

The next morning, the telephone jangled Plato from a fitful sleep. Blearily, he rubbed the fog from his eyes and glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. He was late for morning rounds.

“Hello?” His voice was still fuzzy.

“Plato? Sorry to wake you, dear, but it’s time for work anyway.”

“Yes, Cal.”

“I talked Sandy Aaronson into seeing your patients this morning. I have a favor to ask.”

“What now?” Plato groaned, lying back and pulling the pillow over his head. This investigation was getting out of hand.

“Well, you remember our talk about Jan Thorndyke? I think you’re right. She didn’t kill Rufus.”

“Thank you,” he replied warily.

“But you see, Plato, she’s going home this morning.”

“That’s nice.”

There was a pause. “And she doesn’t feel safe. I don’t blame her. Somewhere out there, the person who killed her husband is walking around free. Someone already tried to kill Mrs. Reiss. Jan’s worried that they might come after her.”

“Mmph.”

“Plato? Could you come, please? She asked me to go to the house with her, to be sure it’s okay. I’d like you to come along.”

What could an obstetrician do against a murderer? Wave a pair of forceps at him? Threaten to suture his nose to his lips? But there was no use arguing. “Okay. Let me shower first.”

Before the Thorndyke house, a pale silver Cadillac waited in the swirling morning mist. Jan sighed, put her head in her hand. “Someone you know?” Plato asked.

“My father.”

From the back seat, Cal patted her shoulder. “If you’d like, Plato and I can—”

“No.” She turned to face them. “Please come in with me. I may have given you the wrong impression. Daddy isn’t such an ogre. It’s just that since Mother died, I’m the only family he’s got. He’s terribly lonely.”

Cal glanced at her husband. “Okay. At least we can help you get settled.”

Gage emerged from his car as they mounted the steps and rushed to help with Jan’s bag. “Good to see you again, Plato. And this is—”

“Calista Marley,” Cal answered, shaking his hand. “I’m Plato’s wife. I’m also a pathologist at the hospital.”

“Such an interesting name. And so appropriate.”

Cal blushed.

“In Greek, it means ‘beautiful,’ ” Plato explained, seeing Jan’s confusion.

She smiled and showed them to the study. “This was always my favorite room.”

Heavy oak shelves lined the walls. Two full-length windows looked east across the fog. Red leather chairs squatted in the corner, near an antique globe.

After they were seated, Jan asked, “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Nonsense,” Cal admonished, rising to her feet. “You just show me where things are; I’ll get them ready.”

“How is the investigation going?” asked Dr. Gage. He sat back and crossed his legs.

“I don’t really know much about it,” Plato lied. “Of course, you heard that Leonard Reiss was in an accident last night.”

Gage’s face darkened. “No, I hadn’t.”

“Mrs. Reiss is a patient of yours?”

“Yes. Yes, she is.”

Cal returned shortly with a silver tea set. While she was serving, the doorbell rang. A moment later, Martin Callahan appeared in the doorway beside Jan. Dressed in a suit of glossy black silk, he looked as sleek as ever.

“Good morning, everyone. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Father, this is Martin Callahan,” Jan said. “My father, Nicholas Gage.”

“A pleasure,” Gage muttered, rising and shaking hands. It was clear that he was losing patience with his daughter’s visitors. “Jan, you’re tired. Perhaps we should all—”

“That’s okay, Father. Really.” She addressed the group. “Please stay for a while. I don’t want to be alone just yet.”

“Certainly. I wanted to offer my condolences, er, about Rufus.” For once, Callahan’s voice lacked its customary smoothness.

“Thank you, Martin.” Taking a seat across from her father, Jan grimaced. Sipping her tea, she complained, “Since I got home, my stomach’s been bothering me again.”

“All this activity.” Gage waggled a finger. “You should be in bed. Your system’s had a nasty shock.”

“I’ll be just fine.” Jan smiled, and her blonde hair glowed in the lamplight. She reached into her purse, pulled out a pill bottle. “Remember how Rufus always made me carry these stomach pills around? The ones you prescribed for him? Rufus would hunt through my purse for them whenever he felt sick. I don’t know why I didn’t take one at the party.”

It was like a slow-motion sequence. Before anyone could move, she unscrewed the lid and tipped a capsule into her hand. Cal caught her arm before she could raise it to her mouth.

“Wait!”

Jan looked at her, startled.

“Has Sheriff Cameron checked those pills?”

She shook her head dumbly.

Softly, Cal said, “I think he’d better.”

Like an obedient child, Jan glanced down at the pill in her hand and gave it to Cal. A dam of tears broke and flooded her cheeks.

Gage sat still as a statue. The blood had drained from his face.

“Daddy,” Jan murmured. It sounded like an accusation. Head lowered, her voice caught. “You hated Rufus. You hired a private investigator to follow him. But I didn’t believe you. I still don’t.”

She looked up at him for the first time. “Can’t you see? Sometimes you don’t want to believe. All that, I could forgive you. I could forget. But this—”

Her voice was perfectly calm, level, lifeless. Slowly, she rose from her chair and walked out of the room.

Gage was stunned. Cal sat staring at the pill in her hand. Callahan looked uncomfortable.

Plato walked to the telephone and dialed the sheriff’s office. Ian was out, but the dispatcher would radio his car and send him over.

He hung up. For the first time, all the pieces had fallen into place. Gage’s embarrassment at his son-in-law. The bitter confrontation, that Friday before the party.

It must have seemed ridiculously easy to the gastroenterologist. The symptoms of food poisoning and arsenic were remarkably similar. Perhaps one day, long ago, he had filed that away in his mind.

When his daughter didn’t want to see the truth about her husband, he removed her problem with cold, clinical precision. Like excising a cancer. A simple matter. Wait for the right moment, open her purse, and dust the pills with arsenic. It wouldn’t take much. When Rufus got sick at the party, he’d turn to the medicine Gage had prescribed. Unexpectedly, he’d offered his remedy to Felicia as well.

Gage’s friendship with Mrs. Reiss was a stroke of luck. Contaminating the mayonnaise was pathetically easy. Too bad he’d mixed up the cars, draining Leonard’s brake fluid instead.

But then Plato had a disturbing thought. He turned to his wife, who was examining the pills more closely. “Cal, you won’t find any arsenic on those.”

“Don’t say anything.” Her voice was hard with warning.

He ignored her. “Think about it. Gage had every chance to switch the pills Monday when he visited her. Or during the night, when she was asleep.”

Cal glanced at the old physician. He was motionless, a pale white ghost trapped in ice.

“Plato,” she said quietly, “Dr. Gage didn’t kill Rufus.”

Her husband crossed his arms, lifted his chin belligerently. “No? Then who did?”

Just then, Martin Callahan rose and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Cal cried.

Like a black leopard spotting an antelope, Callahan burst into a run. He was nearly to the hall when Plato stretched his leg across the threshold. The chairman of Mardyke Pharmaceuticals crashed into an ornate china cabinet. Astonishingly, he emerged from the wreckage and took off down the hall before Plato could stop him.

But as he opened the door to freedom, a voice met him. “Hold on a minute, laddie! What’s your hurry?”

A raincoated dwarf blocked the doorway. Surprised, Callahan paused for a moment, then tried to push past him. But the sheriff packed quite a bit of inertia. Before Plato could blink, a chubby paw flipped into the mackintosh and reappeared with a .38 caliber police special.

“Now, let’s all head back inside and have a little chat, shall we?”

Back in the study, Cal held a handful of capsules. On one side they were stamped with the letters “ginrt.” On the reverse they bore an interlocking M and D.

“Ginger root,” Cal said. She cracked one open. “Heavily laced with arsenic.”

The sheriff nodded his head at Callahan. “Maybe you’d better have a seat.”

Gage finally spoke. It took him a while to get his voicebox lubricated again. “She thought... she thought that I—”

He went after his daughter.

Callahan sat sullenly, scowling at the carpet.

“By the way, Cal,” Ian remarked, “Reiss woke up this morning. He’s still pretty foggy, but he said he was investigating some new street drug called sleeper. He’d met with Rufus about it last week.”

“Sleeper,” Cal whispered.

“Indeed,” the sheriff answered, but Plato waved him to silence.

He watched his wife’s face. She was sitting back in her chair, frowning, eyes closed. Her nose crinkled subtly like a rabbit sniffing alfalfa. It was her pose of intense concentration. The poisoned capsules still rested in her hand.

To Plato, it didn’t make any sense. Why would Callahan want to kill Rufus? What did sleeper have to do with it?

“Hypnocose.” Cal opened her eyes, gazed at Callahan. “One and the same. Oh, maybe there were a few of your special modifications so the drug couldn’t be traced. Synthetic narcotic plus an anti-anxiety drug. Both highly addictive.”

Ian pulled out his Miranda card and read it to the prisoner.

“Reiss was investigating sleeper,” Cal noted. “He probably suspected that Mardyke was the source.”

She turned to Plato. “Remember the DEA agent at the party? He thought sleeper was coming up from Mexico. Just the reverse. Callahan was probably sending it down there. He had connections in San Diego. Rufus probably wanted to talk to the DEA before Reiss blew the story.”

“Thorndyke would have asked his partner about it first,” Plato noted.

“Oh, yes,” Cal agreed bitterly. “After all, he was such a trusting person. Callahan probably reassured him, then moved to get rid of him. Easy enough for him, since Rufus’s addiction to health foods was their ‘little secret.’ ”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” Callahan exclaimed. When he rose from the chair again, Ian produced a pair of handcuffs.

“I don’t have to use these, Martin. But if you make me, I will.”

Callahan sat down again.

“There was no breakthrough at the plant, was there?” Cal asked rhetorically. “The celebration at your house was just an excuse. While Rufus and Jan were swimming, you switched the pills in her purse. I’m sure Rufus had told you how he hid the ginger root in Gage’s bottle. Another ‘little secret’ you shared. When he got sick the next day, he took one. And probably offered one to Felicia as well.

“Unfortunately for you, your plane was delayed. You probably planned to switch the pills back again during the confusion at the party. But you couldn’t.”

“Hold on, lassie.” Ian turned to Callahan, began searching his pockets. He pulled out a small plastic bag. Inside were several capsules identical in appearance to those Cal held. “Is this why you came today? And why you were leaving in such a hurry?”

Callahan ignored him. Like a patient martyr, he looked up at the ceiling, then out the window at the mist clearing in the valley.

“There’s only one thing I can’t figure out,” Cal concluded. “Martin Callahan wasn’t at the party. How did he contaminate the food?”

“I can answer that.” Jan Thorndyke’s voice was clear and confident. She stood just inside the room.

Gage was beside her, an arm over her shoulder.

“Salad spray?” Plato cried. “Never heard of it. Who’d want hair-spray on their salad, anyway?”

“Not hairspray,” Cal corrected him. “Salad freshener. All the good restaurants use it these days. Keeps the lettuce from wilting.”

“I still don’t get it.” Plato rummaged through the freezer. It had been another long day. But Callahan was safely in the county hotel, so it looked as if Plato was done with the case. “We need a vacation. Maybe a cruise. There’s good food on cruise ships, isn’t there?”

“Yeah. But you’d be too seasick to eat.” Cal sat before the portable electronic typewriter on the kitchen table. One finger at a time, she plinked out the final draft of her coroner’s report.

“Mmmph.” Her husband made a fist and hammered at the ice inside the freezer. With a satisfied grunt, he wrestled a plastic bag free. Inside, barely discernible through a coating of frost, were breaded chicken fillets. “Explain it to me again.”

“Well, the day before the party, when Jan and Rufus went over to Callahan’s, he’d made a salad.” Plink, plonk. “He’s quite a gourmet, you know. Anyway, he was raving about this salad freshener, and how it keeps the lettuce from wilting. Jan was interested, since their party was the next day. He gave her his bottle. Jan agreed that it might offend Mrs. Reiss, so she added it herself. Of course, it was full of live staph.”

“So why didn’t they get sick on Saturday?” Plato dumped the bag’s contents into a bowl and placed it inside the microwave. “For that matter, why didn’t I get sick? I had salad Sunday.”

“Yes, but staph needs something to grow on. Crab Louis is a sauce over a base of lettuce.” Plink-beep. “It grew in the mayonnaise of the crab Louis, but not in the ordinary salad.”

He opened the microwave, turned the bowl, then closed it again. “So how did Callahan know what crab Louis contained? And how could he be sure they were serving it?”

“Silly,” she chided him. “He’s a gourmand. And in case you haven’t noticed, that dish is Mrs. Reiss’s specialty. She’s made it for the hospital appreciation dinner for years now.”

“No. I hadn’t noticed,” Plato pouted. “If you’ll recall, I didn’t have any. I just had salad.”

“Uh-huh.” Cal stretched her arm, patted her husband’s ample waistline. “Salad and prime rib — don’t act so shocked. It’s my job to notice things.”

“Well, fine, Sherlock. Just fine.” Plato couldn’t think of a better rejoinder until he recalled his own bit of deductive genius. “Going back over the case today, I figured something out. About Felicia.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, she must have realized that she and Rufus were the sickest. And she must have wondered about it.” Plato gave a satisfied smile. “See, she wasn’t saying ‘Jan’ at all when she died. She was saying ‘ginger.’ ”

“Good work,” Cal praised. “Well, aren’t you going to put that in your report?”

She hesitated, then pointed at one of the sheets. “It already is in. On page four.”

“Oh.”

“Cheer up, honey. At least you’re a better cook than I am.”

She was right. The chicken smelled wonderful. Plato pulled the bowl from the oven again. Inside, the breaded fillets floated in a bath of melted frost.

“Chicken soup,” he announced.

“Really? I’m famished!” She tore the last sheet from her typewriter, peered at the concoction. The breading had separated from most of the pieces, leaving a crusty scum on the surface of the water.

She squeezed his shoulder gently.

“We haven’t saved enough money for a vacation yet.” Cal smiled at her husband. “But I think we can afford a new microwave.”