Carter freezes, barely breathing.
“The trial was in Liverpool,” the man says. “She was charged with killing Peter ‘Paz’ Doyle, a demolition worker, local football club man with ties to hooliganism and organized crime. She was, however, acquitted.”
“There were other suspects?” Arrabella asks.
“None. Law enforcement looked no further.”
“That means they believe it was her—that she really did it. Killed a man. She just wasn’t convicted.”
“Good lawyers,” he says.
Arrabella mutters, “Fuck. Well, fuck me.” She darts another glance toward the deck doors, as though fearing someone might come. “What was her connection to this Paz Doyle?”
“Wife.”
Her jaw drops. “Seriously? She killed her husband? Jeezus. How—how exactly did he die?”
“Heart failure. Postmortem found toxic levels of digitalis, but no proof she administered it. Her defense team raised enough reasonable doubt to sway the jury. They argued Paz Doyle was steeped in gambling debt, and he had ties to organized crime through his football club.”
“Like Angus.”
“Who?”
“Nothing. Just ... someone else whose heart stopped when that woman appeared on scene. Also had digitalis in his system. But he had a heart condition, so the pathologist called it consistent with his medication.”
“Paz Doyle was a wife beater,” he says. “He apparently severely assaulted her on several occasions. She filed complaints. Cops did nothing.”
Carter writes in his book:
Paz Doyle. Wife beater. Football. Crime gang. Poisoned with digitalis? Who’s Angus?
“What about her clients—her elderly patients?” Arrabella asks.
“All expected deaths, if that’s what you mean. Therefore no autopsies. If she hastened their demise—no evidence of it.”
“Yet,” Arrabella says. “I want you to speak to their families. Ask if they suspect anything.”
“You really want to put them through that?”
“Of course. What was her original name?”
“Helen Doyle.”
An elderly gentleman shuffles in through the deck doors. He moves slowly toward the elevators and presses a button. He waits.
Arrabella’s eyes flash to the old man. She swears softly. They all wait in silence for the elevator car to arrive and ferry the gent away.
Carter’s heart gallops. He feels as though he’s dropped into a Hardy Boys or a Willard Price adventure novel. Or a Sherlock Holmes movie.He’s finally got a real live murder mystery! With a man in a pink suit and an orchid, and a pale lady with red lipstick and hair like fire. He cannot contain himself. He’s so excited he needs to pee. The urge is suddenly so fiercely urgent he thinks he might wet his pants.
He knows the washroom is down the hall. But he’d need to get past Arrabella and the man. And now he’s fearful that if they notice him, they might realize what he heard.
But he can’t wait. He just can’t.
He reaches for the strap of his little yellow backpack, and clutching his notebook under his arm, he scoots off the bench and hurtles behind Arrabella and the man, aiming for the corridor that leads to the bathroom.
The man spins about as Carter races past and cuts around the corner. He’s so busy looking over his shoulder that he slams full force into a woman who was standing behind the corner. He hits her so hard he takes her out at the knees, and they both go flailing and crumpling down to the carpet in front of a vending machine.
“Jesus Holy Mary Mother of Christ almighty,” the woman exclaims.
