An Accidental Life (10 page)

Pushing back the chair, abruptly she rose. With a bright smile, she said to Amalise, “Listen, Peter will be here soon.”

Amalise stood, silent, still studying her face.

“Our flight leaves at four, so I’d better get back to my office. I’ve got a lot to do.” Heading for the door, she said over her shoulders, “You know how it is when you’re trying to get away, Amalise. Sydney’s got questions; Rose Marie has questions.”

But Amalise had reached her. Rebecca turned and was swept into a hug. Tears rose and she blinked them back as she rested her head on Amalise’s shoulder for an instant. Just for one moment.

“I’m always here, you know,” Amalise whispered in her ear.

“I know.” Rebecca nodded as she pulled away.

But Amalise pressed both hands on Rebecca’s shoulders, gripping them, holding her eyes. “Talk to Peter while you’re on this trip. Give him some credit, Rebecca. I know you’ll make the right decision. And the moment you feel that baby move, your life will change,” she said.

Rebecca turned away. “That’s just what I’m afraid of.”

11

Peter spent the morning in several
hearings, but was able to reschedule most for the following week when he’d be back from the trip. Anything active and moving toward the head of the line he sent on to some of the junior ADAs to handle in the interim.

He was reviewing files, closing the ones to be sent to archives, when Mac showed up. He stood in the doorway, looking at Peter. “Will I be able to get in touch with you over the weekend if anything comes up in the Chasson case?”

“Molly has phone and fax numbers for the hotel. Any luck finding that second nurse?” He set down the file he’d been reading. “The one Glory Lynn says she saw in the delivery room after the baby was born?”

“Clara Sonsten. She’s quit, no longer employed. Got another job. There’s a talkative little receptionist at the clinic though.” He stuck his hands in his pants pockets. “Girl named Melanie Wright. Says she doesn’t know where Clara might have gone and wouldn’t give out her address. But I’ll find her.”

“Wonder what happened there.”

“Could be interesting. At least this might make it easier for her to talk. And get this, Eileen Broussard and Charles Vicari are married, so the receptionist says. I didn’t even think to check those records, but that means we just lost one witness who was in the room.”

“Sure. She’ll hide behind the privilege. Let’s think about that. She could be an accessory; maybe we could work out a deal.” Peter rolled his lips together, thinking this over

“What’s the receptionist say about her?”

Mac tilted his head. “That bird sounds a little strange. She’s a cold one, Melanie says. Came down from Chicago about six months ago, same time Charles Vicari arrived. They both worked at New Hope Hospital up there. New Hope’s a private hospital. She thinks they haven’t been married all that long. Thinks they only got hitched a few months ago.”

“Bad luck. Did you call the hospital?”

“Talked to a couple people up there. But you know how that goes. You have to have a source in a hospital; they’re tighter than clams with employee and health information.”

Mac shrugged and strolled into the office. Stood at the window, arms hooked behind his back, looking out for a moment. He turned, facing Peter. “I’m gonna have to go up there to get anything done. Spent the morning on the phone while they switched me from one office to another. They’ll give you the dates of employment, but not much else.”

“You think the receptionist, this Melanie Wright, knows anything?”

“She might. She’s a talker, too.”

“Good.”

Peter leaned on his elbows and massaged his temples and forehead. “This case is keeping me awake at night.” He wouldn’t have confided this to anyone but Mac. “That photo of the baby in the towel in a freezer. I can’t shake it.”

He dropped his hand on the desk before him and straightened. “It’s hard to imagine what could have happened. Glory Lynn Chasson says she hears that infant cry, and then it disappears. The next time anyone sees it is in a freezer.” He clamped his hands behind his head and looked off, past Mac and through the window. A thin layer of dust coated the glass, making the day and the scene on the river look slightly hazy.

Mac shook his head. “You sure you want this case on your back, Counselor? It’s not too late to get it into the system.”

Peter’s eyes flicked back to Mac. “You bet I want this case. I’m going to find out what happened here. I want to know if the baby was alive, and if it was, whether that doctor, Charles Vicari, intentionally let it die.”

“And why,” Mac added in a laconic tone.

Peter nodded. “And why.”

Alice Jean Hamilton, Dr. Matlock’s nurse, had had a long day. She slipped off her shoes, leaving them in the usual place near the front door of the living room, and walked in stocking feet into the kitchen. Finally, Thursday afternoon had arrived. With a sigh of relief, she filled the teapot with water, set it on the burner and turned on the fire underneath. Then she retrieved the china cup and saucer from the shelf—a delicate flowered pattern, she’d found the set on Magazine Street—and she took the tea bag from the box in the cupboard and set them both down on the counter.

She heaved a sigh as she pulled out a chair at the kitchen table in the corner, and prepared to wait for the water to boil. What a day. Her feet hurt. You’d think a doctor’s office would be easier than working in a hospital. Well, perhaps it was, but the work was boring in comparison, and she was still on her feet all day. Here she merely trudged up and down one short hallway all day long behind the doctor, instead of hustling up and down those long corridors at New Hope where something was always going on.

And the files that Matlock kept. Is this what she’d come to after thirty-seven years of nursing? All in all she’d rather be in hospital pediatrics with the newborns, but . . . that part of her life was over. Done. And just as well. Stretching her legs, she wiggled her toes under the table, glad to be finally off her feet.

Behind her the phone on the wall began to ring. For a moment she considered not answering. Friends from the early years here were long gone by the time she’d moved back. And she had cut all ties but one with people in Chicago and at New Hope. But the phone kept on ringing, so, with an air of resignation and irritated at the interruption, she stood and walked over there.

“Hello?” She leaned one shoulder against the wall.

“Alice?”

Instantly she recognized the voice and tensed, ducking her head to speak directly into the mouthpiece, as if someone else might hear. “Is something wrong?”

“I said I’d call if anyone was asking.”

“Oh no.” Gripping the receiver, she pushed off the wall, pressing the telephone close to her ear. She pressed her hand against her forehead, looking at the floor.

The voice on the other end said nothing.

Seconds passed and then Alice said, “I’d hoped . . . Well all right then, tell me.”

“Listen, calm down, it’s not that bad. I was on desk duty this afternoon and took a call. I think it was the police down there, Alice. He said he was a detective something or other with the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s department. Down there near New Orleans.”

“Did he ask for me by name?”

“No. Let me finish. He wasn’t looking for you. He wanted to know about Dr. Vicari. And Eileen.”

Alice was silent, struggling to put the pieces together in her thoughts. What did Charles Vicari have to do with New Orleans? The last she’d seen of him was in Chicago, at New Hope Hospital.

“Are you there?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m here.” The room seemed to sway as she dealt with the idea of Charles Vicari in the vicinity. Leaning back against the wall, another worry took seed. Dr. Matlock. What would happen to her job if he knew? Those doctors all stuck together, she knew. She’d lose her job if he found out, of course. Nobody wants to be involved with trouble. She wondered if he’d go after her license, too.

She took a deep breath. “You say he didn’t ask for me. Do you know why he called?”

“Like I said, he wanted information on the doctor, and Eileen Broussard, too. How long they were here, things like that. I told him I couldn’t give out any information. Told him to call personnel. Say, did you know those two got married?”

Alice said nothing.

The voice turned soothing. “Look. Whatever’s going on, he didn’t ask a thing about you. There’s no way anyone could know, so just stay calm. I’m just letting you know someone called about Vicari, like you asked—like I said I would.”

Alice nodded. Then remembering her manners, she said, “I appreciate it.”

Slowly her lungs filled again with air. Her grip on the phone relaxed. “Thanks for letting me know. And you’ll call if anyone asks again? About either of them, or if anyone mentions me, or if you find out what’s going on?”

“Sure. You know I will.”

“Okay. Thanks again.” She hesitated. “Really, thank you, sweetie.”

“You’re welcome.”

She hung up the phone, and stood looking across the room at the tea pot on the stove. Just then it began to whistle. Just in time—she could really use a hot cup of tea right now.

12

They took Delta to New York.
The first class seats in the Pan Am Boeing 747 Clipper to Rome—the sleeperettes, as the pretty hostesses in their crisp blue and white uniforms called them—reclined all the way back. She could forget everything and doze through most of the trip. Beside Rebecca, Peter was working. He’d pulled a brief from his briefcase that he said was due next week. The case was coming to trial in two weeks. While the business and tourist class passengers filed onto the plane behind the curtain, the hostesses began passing around drinks and hors d’oeurves.

A hostess halted before Peter and Rebecca’s seats with the tray of appetizers and both Peter and Rebecca shook their heads. Rebecca asked for a glass of ginger ale, and Peter, tomato juice with lemon. She returned with the drinks right away. Dinner would be served in about an hour, she said.

Peter put down his brief. He picked up his glass and proposed a toast.

“To our weekend.”

Rebecca lifted her glass to his. “To sleeping late in the mornings.”

Peter gave her a deep look and a long, slow smile. “To late evenings.”

The glasses clinked. She smiled at the thought that rose. “Remember the little beach at the foot of the steps where the fishermen keep their boats, their
barcas
?”

“I sure do. And I remember it’s a long way down the cliff from the hotel, and steep.”

“Yes. But that’s easier than climbing back up.”

Peter looked off, puckering his forehead.

“What are you thinking about?”

He shook his head and the corners of his mouth grew tight. “I can’t get my mind off a complaint that Mac’s been investigating. It’s gotten under my skin.”

“A new case you’re taking on?”

“Yes. That is, if we go forward. It’s too early yet to tell. We’ve just received the autopsy report.”

She held up her hand. “No autopsies on this trip.”

He didn’t laugh, as he usually would.

She studied him. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not now. Not this weekend.”

Peter set the glass down on his tray-table and returned to work. Rebecca pressed her hand over the little bulge that she’d discovered that morning. She wasn’t certain if the bulge was real, or just her imagination. But the waistline of the loose pants she’d worn for the long flight did seem snug. She’d worn a long matching sweater to cover it up, and now, with a glance at Peter that told her he was still engrossed in his work, she unfolded the blanket the hostess handed her, gave it a shake, and spread it across her legs. Then she yanked it up high enough to hide the waistband that she was unhooking.

When the button was undone and the blanket was in place, she reached for the large purse she carried when traveling, and pulled out a novel. The nausea seemed to have disappeared. She hadn’t felt the sickness in the last day or two. Maybe, just maybe, that torture was over.

At cruising altitude over the Atlantic, dinner was served. Peter put away his work and she, her book, and they turned their attention to each other and the food—lemony smoked salmon sprinkled with capers, and after that—salad, filet, with a béarnaise sauce, steamed broccoli, and snowy whipped potatoes. Afterward, Peter took coffee, Rebecca passed. Neither had dessert.

When the dinner trays were gone and Peter reached again for his briefcase, she lowered the back of her seat, raised the footrest, and closed her eyes. The dim light, the close quarters, the steady hum of the engines flying thousands of feet above the earth and Peter beside her, all of this provided a comforting sense that time was suspended. Closing her eyes, she resolved not to think of anything right now but the muscles in her body beginning to relax one by one. She would not think of the baby; not right now. Not yet.

Turning her head, for a few minutes she watched Peter writing notes in the margins of the brief. In this relaxed state, Rebecca pondered the time change between Positano, Italy, and New Orleans, and then wondered if babies in the womb have any sense of time, and then wondered whether a newborn baby had any sense of time. And then she stopped those thoughts.