Blood Count

CHAPTER 18

I have an old woman’s feet, Artie. I have ugly, wrinkled old feet now,” Lily said. Sitting on a white leather stool at the kitchen counter in her apartment at the Armstrong, she looked down at her bare feet. Her soggy winter boots were on the floor. I was opposite her. “How do you feel?”

We had been sitting like that for a little while. Lily had helped me wash the blood off my face and put some clean bandages on my hand.

“I’m OK now. And your feet are OK. I like your feet,” I said.

She didn’t answer, just pulled herself off the stool and crossed the kitchen to make coffee.

The apartment had cream-colored curtains and sofas. A milky pink glass vase filled with orange roses was on the granite kitchen counter. The living room, this kitchen, had been renovated-stainless steel appliances, sleek wood floors and cupboards, a blue-and-white-striped kilim. Unlike Simonova’s apartment, no water dripped from the ceiling; no plaster cascaded down the walls; the paint was fresh. Glossy magazines were artfully arranged on a black glass coffee table.

Lily put two mugs on the counter. “Do you want something to eat?”

I shook my head and glanced at the old clock that hung on the kitchen wall.

“What is it?” she said.

“I was wondering if Dr. Bernard had stopped by. She said she’d come. I was stuck in the fucking storage room.” I rubbed my head.

“Don’t touch it,” said Lily, handing me a dishcloth. “There’s blood on your head, Artie. You need to see someone. You need them to check for concussion. I mean it.” For a moment, Lily’s bossy, practical side took her over, and it made me smile. For a moment.

“So what about Dr. Bernard?”

“What? I think you should eat something.” Lily, fussing in the kitchen, opening the fridge, pulling out plates, slicing bread. She put it all on the counter and began to make sandwiches. As she unwrapped hard-boiled eggs, the smell got to me and I felt sick.

“Dr. Bernard was coming to sign Simonova’s death certificate,” I said. “You remember?”

“Oh, that. Right,” said Lily, placing salami on a slab of bread and spreading it with mustard. “Sure, but it’s done, Artie. I took care of it. It’s just fine. We don’t have to bother Dr. Bernard after all.”

I went to the sink and ran the water, drank from the tap, washed my face, and dried it off with some paper towels. I turned around and leaned against the sink so I could see her.

“Lily?”

“What?”

“What’s going on? Why were you getting meds for a woman you know is dead?” I looked at her. “You have to tell me. It doesn’t add up.”

“Yes, yes, sure, Artie, I’m behaving like an idiot, I know we need to get this sorted, of course.” She picked up a plastic bottle, took out a pill, put it in her mouth, washed it down with some coffee.

“What are you taking?”

She didn’t answer.

I went to the window and looked out. It was dark now. Still snowing.

“Lily?”

“Come and sit down. I can’t talk to your back,” she said. I went to the counter and sat down again on the stool.

“What is it?” Lily said.

“I went to see Dr. Bernard. She said you didn’t call her at all today.”

“Maybe the messages didn’t get through. I tried her. I told you.”

“She said she didn’t get any. I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who loses her messages,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have done that without telling me.”

Lily looked down at her feet again. “I’ll go get Lionel,” she said.

“You didn’t call Dr. Bernard at all, did you?” I asked her. “What else is there you didn’t tell me?”

“Her number was busy, OK?” Lily was angry now. She got up abruptly, left the apartment, and slammed the door.

“Lily tells me you’ve had a bit of a rough time. May I look at that gash on your forehead?” Dr. Hutchison inspected my head. “Can I fix those bandages for you?”

Lily hovered close by. She had slammed out of the apartment, then reappeared, Hutchison in tow.

“Not now.” I looked at my watch. “Where the hell is she?”

“Who?” Lily said.

“Dr. Bernard. It’s getting late.”

“No need to worry,” Hutchison said. “I just called Lucille, we talked earlier, as you know, detective, but I called again and I persuaded her that everything had been arranged properly. Lily, would you make me a cup of coffee, please?”

I was surprised. Lucille Bernard didn’t seem like a woman who would change her mind easily. “You mean she’s not coming?”

“I told her I had examined Marianna and I had signed the death certificate.”

“Where did you get it?”

“It’s not that difficult, please believe me. In any case, I told Lucille I had called Riverside Chapel, which is a Jewish funeral home. I knew, as I believe Lily explained to you, that Marianna was of the Jewish persuasion and wanted a Jewish funeral.”

“She told you.”

“Oh, yes, we discussed these things many times, as old people will.” He adjusted his lapel, as if to play for time while he considered his words. “You see, the good people from Riverside came over and took Marianna.”

“What?”

“The burial will be tomorrow,” Hutchison said.

“I told you all this, Artie,” Lily said. “I’m sure Marianna even wrote it somewhere. Wasn’t that what you thought, Lionel, that she had specifically put it down that she wanted the Jewish thing?”

“Did she have surviving family?” I said.

“No,” said Hutchison. “Absolutely not.”

I got out my phone.

“Who are you calling?” Lily said.

“Just checking for messages,” I said, hoping Bernard had called me. But there were none.

“You really don’t have to call anyone,” Lily said. “Or don’t you trust Lionel? Or me?”

“I know you’re concerned, detective, but it’s just fine,” Hutchison said. “I have my license; I’ve been a doctor a very long time, and I can certainly sign a death certificate. The law says that if the deceased was in the care of a particular doctor in the period preceding death, it’s acceptable.”

“So she was in your care?”

“In mine, in the sense that I saw her most days. In Lucille Bernard’s as well. I was often in touch with Lucille on the subject. I saw Marianna, I saw her frequently. Of course,” he said. “I warned her against drinking too much of that vodka she loved. I said to her, ‘Marianna, dear, you can’t drink like that in your condition.’ She didn’t listen. She was full of life.”

“When he called Riverside, Lionel discovered that Marianna had arranged everything in advance-her funeral, her casket, all of it. She had even paid for it. Didn’t you?” said Lily to Hutchison.

“How did you discover it?” I said.

“I spoke with the director from Riverside Memorial. Marianna had also purchased a plot in a cemetery on Long Island,” Hutchison said. “They’ve arranged for her to be buried early tomorrow, first thing, to keep within twenty-four hours, which is what is preferred for people of the Jewish faith.”

“I thought it had to be right away,” I said.

“Unless it’s the Jewish Sabbath, and today is Saturday, of course,” said the doctor. “We’ve acceded to all of Marianna’s wishes. That makes me feel good. We were very close, you know.”

“You signed the death certificate. What was the time of death?”

“Three seventeen this morning.”

“You know that?”

Hutchison looked at me. “Yes.”

“How?”

“You’ll have to trust me,” he said.

“Cause of death? According to you.”

“Her heart gave out.”

“And how did you manage to see her this morning? I gather your wife locks your door.”

He laughed without humor. “It’s our little game. She likes to think I wander in my sleep and she protects me.” He grunted. “Naturally, I have my own keys.”

“So you saw Mrs. Simonova earlier this morning? Before Lily found her? At say, three seventeen a.m.? I had the feeling when you asked me for matches out on the terrace, you already knew.”

“Yes, detective. I knew that she had already passed as I just told you. In any case, I was meaning to raise it with you when my wife called me back into the apartment.”

“She didn’t know?”

“She didn’t know that I often dropped in on Marianna early in the morning.”

“Lily told me she’s the only one who had Simonova’s keys.”

“Things change.”

“And anyway you can go from your terrace to Simonova’s, isn’t that right?”

“Yes. I’m in quite good shape, as you see. I can climb over that foolish little wall that divides us.”

“When were you planning to tell your wife?” I felt like I was being played.

“Why are you badgering Lionel?” Lily said.

“Detective Cohen asks good questions,” said Hutchison. “It’s his habit. Deduction. A bit like Sherlock Holmes, perhaps, wouldn’t you say? Or would it be that doctor on TV, that Dr. House?” In his sharp eyes was a hint of almost joyful malice. He’d had enough of me, and he let it show.

Hutchison had been used to his power in his own world, and he resented my questions. As a doctor, he was used to giving orders, used to people who obeyed them.

“So you knew from early this morning.”

“Yes.”

“That she was dead.”

“That is correct,” he said.

“But you waited to mention it.”

“It was very early. I often take my coffee out on the terrace, take my coffee, juice, the damn pills I have to take. That way I could see if there was a light on in Marianna’s.”

“So you could visit. And was there a light?”

“Candles,” he said. “I was going to talk to Lily as soon as I could manage it out of my wife’s hearing.”

“What did you think when you saw Simonova?”

“I am a doctor. I knew she was at the end. I waited until she passed. She was not alone.”

I thought of the way the dead body had seemed posed.

“You touched her, you arranged the body in any way?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Hutchison.

“But you didn’t tell your wife.”

“Celestina is a silly old woman. She did not like Marianna.”

“Anything between you?”

“I am eighty-two years old, detective, but Madame Seminova had bad breath and, well, if you were asking, she was not my type.” He gave a small measured smile. “We were good friends. We had things in common. I loved her.”

“What kind of things?”

“Politics,” said Hutchison. “Poetry. We discussed literature. We’d laugh about how I had to sneak cigarettes past Celestina. We played cards. Marianna told me her bridge set had been given to her by Anatoly Dobrynin when he was Soviet ambassador. She called him Toli. We discussed international affairs. She played her wonderful old records for me. We both loved this building. That was a bond too.” He looked at his watch. “I must go. You’re satisfied now, detective?”

“When you talked to Dr. Bernard, did she say anything else?”

“She said you seemed rather decent, for a cop, which coming from Lucille Bernard is quite a compliment. In any case, I must get back,” he said.

“You didn’t want her to suffer, of course. Simonova, that is?” I said to him.

“Yes.”

“Had she been in pain?”

“Surely.”

“What kind of pain?”

“Stop it,” said Lily. “Please, Artie, this is hard enough without you playing detective.”

“One more thing,” I said.

“Of course.”

“Amahl Washington.”

Suddenly, it was as though everything slowed down; no one spoke. Dr. Hutchison, who had said he was in a hurry, took his time selecting a chocolate cookie from a plate Lily had placed on the kitchen counter. He picked it up and ate a small bite. He didn’t answer me about Amahl Washington, not then; I saw he was waiting for me to challenge him in some way; Lily was on his side. Then the doorbell rang. Lily hurried to answer it, shut the door, returned carrying a casserole dish covered with a yellow cloth.

“Who was it?”

“Regina McGee, lady who lives down the hall. To see if she could help out with the funeral arrangements.”

“So everybody knows.”

“Of course, they know,” said Lily. “People saw the funeral home take Marianna away. In a black bag, Artie. Like garbage. On a gurney. Garbage on a gurney, that’s what it was like.” Lily pushed her hair back. “They’ll all be ringing the doorbell, they’ll all be wanting to talk about it. Wanting a funeral, a memorial, something. I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Why you?” I said to Lily.

“They know we were friends.”

Hutchison was on his feet. “I’ll talk to them.” He kissed Lily on the cheek. “I’m around if you need me,” he said and started for the door, then stopped suddenly and turned around.

“I don’t know who I’ll be able to talk to ever again, you know,” he said. “Most everyone is dying off. You have a best friend like Marianna, you get that thing only once in a long while. She was different; she knew the world. Crazy as she was.” He smiled. “Oh, we laughed. We were an odd pair for certain, but she never talked foolishness. That was what I liked. You sure you don’t need me to stitch that up?” he asked, looking at my forehead.

“I’m OK.”

“You have something for it?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Let me know if there are any side effects. Rest if you can. You must be feeling pretty raggedy. Call me and we can talk.”

“What kind of pain?” I said again.

“What’s that?”

“Mrs. Simonova. What kind of pain?”

Hutchison’s voice was steady, but his eyes teared up. “The kind of pain that makes it not worth living, the kind that comes when you can’t breathe,” he said.