“I can’t help you. I told you that weeks ago, too.”
“Can’t you?” he asked softly
His tone made her wary. “What do you mean?”
“Do you have documents in your possession, records your husband kept that might shed light on the case; prove his innocence?”
She sank into the nearest chair, rubbing her forehead with her three middle fingers. Was that it? He thought she was withholding evidence. Didn’t he think she would have turned it over if she had discovered anything? Then again, she didn’t even want him to know she had searched. That would be tantamount to admitting the possibility of Thomas’s guilt, wouldn’t it? By an act of will she shook off the depression and fatigue that weighed her down, not wanting to reveal a trace of weakness.
“You want me to let you paw through Thomas’s personal effects, is that it?”
An exasperated sigh preceded his clipped reply. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“But that’s what you want?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“I can’t help you, Mr. McKee. When I moved from the house, I took only a few items that had special significance to me and left the rest for his children to handle as they saw fit.”
“I’ve gone through those things, with Mr. Wynne’s attorney present, I might add. I found nothing incriminating in them.”
“Then that should be your answer!” she exclaimed.
“I found nothing to absolve him, either,” he retorted. “You know as well as I do that a man who has as many irons in the fire as your husband did is bound to keep several sets of books. Do you have them, Ms. Stewart?”
“No!” The truth of it was, she didn’t. Thomas had never written anything down, not telephone numbers, addresses, errands to run, things to pack, nothing. He carried information in his head. In desperation she asked, “Do you think I’m deliberately trying to keep something from you? What’s that called?”
“Obstruction of justice.”
“Do you think I’m guilty of that?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“You’ll swear to that?”
“Yes.”
After a lengthy silence, he sighed heavily. “That’s just what you’ll have to do then, Ms. Stewart. I’ve tried to spare you an appearance in court, but you’ve forced me to put you on the witness stand.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
She prayed he would hang up. The tense silence between them was almost palpable. What more could either of them say? Yet he made her feel much had been left unsaid. At last he muttered a gruff “good night” and hung up.
She laid the telephone back in its cradle. The simple task seemed to require all her energy. Then she tried to stand. That was when she felt the first cramp.
Pinkie was nursing a bottle of Scotch and watching an old John Wayne movie on TV when his telephone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Pinkie?” Her voice was weak, but he knew who it was. He pulled his stockinged feet from the coffee table, knocking over a bowl of potato chips in the process.
“Kari? What’s the matter?” He didn’t have to ask if something was wrong. Something definitely was. He only wanted to know what.
“I’m bleeding.” Her voice cracked. “I think I’m losing my baby.”
“Your baby!?” he shouted. Blasphemous language poured through his lips. “I’ll be right there.”
He arrived at her condominium within twenty minutes. Bonnie, her hair wound in pink foam curlers, was with him. He had picked her up on his way over. Leaning weakly against the door, Kari let them in. Her eyes were red from weeping.
“Thank you for coming,” she said needlessly. “I called the doctor. He thinks I should come to the hospital just … to … uh … be sure.” Then she collapsed against Bonnie and began to sob rackingly. “I’ve lost my baby. Thomas’s baby. It’s gone. Oh, God. My baby, my baby.”
“More soup?”
Kari smiled wanly. “No, thank you, but it was delicious. I don’t remember anyone ever making me homemade chicken soup before.”
Bonnie lifted the tray off Kari’s lap and patted her hand. “Do you want anything else? A Coke? Juice? The doctor said you must build up your blood sugar.”
“Nothing for now, thanks. You’ve both been terrific. I don’t know what I would have done without you. First Thomas’s … accident. Then the scandal. Now this.” Her voice trailed off and she lowered her eyes to the satin border of the blanket she was pleating between her fingers.
She had been home less than an hour after spending the night in the hospital. Bonnie and Pinkie had driven her home. They were fussing over her like mother hens, making her a bed on the living room sofa, fetching and carrying, talking softly. She was reminded of the days just following Thomas’s funeral. In a grim way, their attitude was appropriate. Her baby had died.