Loving Time

forty-two

Sally Ann Dickey looked like an aged Doris Day. Her eyes were cornflower blue, her cheeks pink, her hair a shade that used to be called strawberry. It was exactly the color of Doris Day’s hair in the fifties. She wore a pearl-gray wool dress and served tea to the two detectives as if it were a social occasion. If they didn’t exactly fit in in her fussy Westchester living room, Mrs. Dickey was the last person to let them know. She patted the pillow on the settee with its back to the window and cocked her head at them politely.

She had placed April and Mike in the delicate chairs that faced her and the very few cars that passed on the street. April cleared her throat. “Thank you for taking the time to see us,” she murmured. “We know this must be difficult for you.”

“Not at all.” Sally Ann Dickey poured tea and turned to Mike. “Sugar?”

“Ah, yes, please.”

“Milk?”

He glanced at April. She was too busy watching Mrs. Dickey’s pouring technique to help him. He shrugged. “Sure.”

Mrs. Dickey put the silver strainer in its silver holder, set down the teapot, picked up a silver creamer, clouded the tea, and handed Mike his porcelain cup.

“Thank you,” he said.

Then Mrs. Dickey picked up the teapot again.

“It’s a delicate situation …” April began.

“So I understand. Sugar?”

“No. Thank you. Plain is fine.” April took the cup and set it on the table in front of her without tasting it.

The new widow had fine white skin meshed with a thousand tiny wrinkles. Her hard blue eyes held April in an unblinking stare until April understood she was expected to sample the tea. She took a sip. As she did so, she was distracted by the sight of a dark blue Ford that looked a lot like some agency’s unit passing slowly in front of the house. Nah. Lots of people drove Fords.

“I’m sorry we’re going to have to ask you some difficult questions,” April said softly.

Mrs. Dickey bent her torso graciously toward Mike. “More tea, Sergeant?”

“Not yet, thank you.”

April could feel some tension developing in Mike. She followed his gaze to the street, where the dark blue Ford cruised by in the opposite direction. Now his antennae were up.

“What would you like to know?” Mrs. Dickey inquired.

“Was your husband taking any kind of medication?”

“Oh, my, what kind of question is that?”

“It’s a background question only someone who knew your husband very well could answer. We need to establish what kinds of medication he normally took.”

The blue eyes regarded her. “Harold was a healthy man. I’m not aware of any.”

Not aware of any. Interesting way to put it. April inhaled. “If it would make you more comfortable, why don’t you tell us in your own words a little about your husband and his habits the last few weeks?”

“Harold was a great doctor, a great teacher, a wonderful man.” Mrs. Dickey poured herself some more tea.

“What about his personality? His moods?”

“Oh. Well. Of course he was preoccupied. He was always preoccupied.”

“Would you say he was depressed?” Mike threw in.

“Depressed? My husband? Never. He had too much to do. More tea?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” Mike smiled at April. Be direct and let’s get the hell out of here.

All right, all right. April nodded. “Mrs. Dickey, did your husband take antidepressants?”

“Of course not. Harold didn’t take anything, wouldn’t even touch an aspirin.”

“What about alcohol?” Mike murmured.

The widow sniffed. “Occasionally he had a drop. To relax.”

“How would you describe his mood lately?” April asked.

Mrs. Dickey looked from one to the other as if she’d suddenly thought of something. “Which one of you is the good one and which one the bad?”

“Excuse me?” April said.

“One of you is the good cop and one is the bad. He must be the bad one. Are you Mexican?” The cornflower-blue eyes were on Mike.

Mike was startled. “How can you tell?”

“I come from Texas, honey. Lubbock. My husband, too. We’ve been here a long time. So have you.”

“Since I was four,” Mike said.

“Still, some things don’t change.” Mrs. Dickey sighed. “We married when we were twenty-one. Harold was going to be a great doctor and help his fellowman. And he did.” A ghost of a young smile passed over the frozen features. “What is it you really want to know?”

“Your husband was in his office most of Sunday.”

“He left around nine in the morning and I knew he was going to the office.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Then how did you know where he was going?”

“He wasn’t dressed for tennis and he took his briefcase and laptop computer with him. He’d gone to the office on Saturday, too. I assumed he was working on something.”

“Do you know what?”

“I heard him talking on the phone. There had been a death, a patient, I believe.”

“Raymond Cowles.”

“Who?”

“Raymond Cowles was the patient who died.”

Mrs. Dickey shook her strawberry-colored head. “No, I don’t believe that’s the one he was concerned about.”

“Another patient died?”

“Well, I just guess so. Overdosed on Elavil.” Mrs. Dickey touched her hair. It was as rigid as cotton candy, molded into a single piece.

“Do you know the patient’s name?” April asked.

“It was very unpleasant, I seem to recall.”

“The death was unpleasant?”

“Yes. It was very unsettling at the time.”

“So it was not a recent death.”

“Oh, no. It happened last year, I think.”

So there had been another death a year ago. “What was unsettling about it?” April pressed on.

Mrs. Dickey looked confused. “I really couldn’t say. Harold was a very private man. More tea?”

“Ah, no, thank you. Your husband had a phone call about a dead patient. When was that?”

“No, he had a phone call about something else. It reminded him of the dead patient.”

“I see,” April murmured.

“You’re the good cop, I can tell. You have a sweet face. Do you have children?”

April moved her chin to the no position. She saw Mike tense as the blue Ford passed the house a third time. Inside, a man in a slate-gray suit was talking on a cellular. His face was hidden by the appliance. He didn’t look their way as he slowed, then sped up at the next house. He wasn’t a cop. Cops didn’t have cellular phones.

April tried one more time. “Other than the phone call on Sunday morning, Mrs. Dickey, can you tell me if there was anything different in your husband’s life in the last few months, anything at all? Did he seem worried, anxious? Was he more withdrawn than usual?”

Mrs. Dickey thought for a moment. “Harold was very worried about the snake. Is that what you mean?”

“The snake?”

“I call her the snake. She’s like a rattlesnake except you can’t hear her coming. She came back, you know, just to tease him after all those years. That’s the kind of woman she is. Well, no more about that. I’m not a gossip.”

“You can say whatever you like to us,” Mike said softly.

“You’re the bad cop. I’ll tell her.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she killed him. That’s what you’re here about, isn’t it? You think Clara Treadwell killed Harold.”

“Ah, Mrs. Dickey, at this time, we’re just trying to establish how your husband might have ingested enough Elavil and scotch to kill him. Whether it was an accident … or he was depressed and did it—”

“She put it in the scotch.”

“Dr. Treadwell?” April asked.

“Yes. She hated Harold. She was trying to get rid of him, and he didn’t want to go.” Mrs. Dickey crossed her arms over her chest. “And that’s what happened. She took my husband. And then she killed him when she didn’t want him anymore.”

And then Clara came and took away the scotch bottle when she returned to lock Dickey’s office after he was dead. April glanced at Mike. She could see he had a few problems with Sally Ann Dickey’s theory. If the head of the Centre had poisoned her former lover’s scotch, why risk being on the scene when he died? April shrugged. Well, maybe Clara hadn’t known Harold would die. But there was another Elavil-related death. Maybe an investigation of that death would lead them in another direction.

April stood. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Dickey. It’s been very useful.” She put her empty cup on the tray. “Oh, by the way, did your husband have an office in the house?”

“Of course. Would you like to see it?”

Now it was three offices. The man had three offices and a wife who may have watched too much television over the years.

“Yes, thank you, we would. But I’d like to use the bathroom first.”

“That door on the right.” Mrs. Dickey pointed to a door under the stairs. She put the rest of the tea things on the silver tray.

“I’d be happy to carry that tray for you.” Sanchez winked at April and picked up the tray.

“Oh, my, are you sure?”

“Of course. I do this at home all the time.”

“I don’t believe that, Sergeant. But thank you anyway. That old thing is getting heavier every day.”

“It happens.” Mike was suddenly being very nice.

April figured he didn’t like being identified as Mexican and the bad cop within minutes of an introduction. As soon as they passed into the kitchen, she ignored the door on the right and headed up the stairs.