When Dr. White came over in the night and suggested to Paul that he go to the hospital, Charlotte had panicked. She’d called Bill and told him to talk Paul out of it. They were hardly going to be able to move forward if Paul was in a locked ward.
So Bill had talked him out of it.
The question had always been how to do it. If Paul’s suicide was going to need a little help, what was the most convincing way for it to happen? Once Bill got over his initial squeamishness, he actually came up with a few good ideas. His best was to have Paul “jump” from the second-floor balcony, or the one off the master bedroom, one floor higher. But was it enough of a drop? Charlotte wondered. What if Paul survived, and told the police what Bill had done? (It would have to be Bill; Charlotte didn’t have the physical strength to heave him over.)
Bill was confident it would work. If Paul survived the fall, Bill would twist his neck.
So when Charlotte learned that Paul had drowned, she didn’t have to feign shock when Detective Arnwright gave her the news. Why hadn’t Bill told her he’d had a change of plan?
Maybe because then she really would look shocked.
She couldn’t bring herself to talk to Bill those first few days. Their first conversation had been at the funeral. Play it safe, she kept thinking. Give it time.
Soon, they’d reconnect.
Soon, he could tell her why he’d decided to drown Paul. She wondered how he’d done it. Dropped by after dark, invited him for a walk on the beach? Then suddenly grabbed him, pushed him down into the water, held his head under?
Anyway, it was done.
She and Bill could get on with a life together. She was aching for him as much as he was for her. She hoped she would always want him the way she wanted him right now.
God, I hope I don’t get bored with him, too.
No, no, that would not happen. They had a bond that was unlike any other.
It had been an interesting experience, all this. Charlotte had learned a lot about herself, what she was capable of. And she’d learned a lot about Bill, too.
She knew he had more of a troubled conscience than she did. She hoped that would not be a problem down the road.
What had he said to her one night?
“What we’re doing, you know it’s wrong.”
Right. And she’d taken only a second to fire back with:
“If you were going to worry about that you should have said something a long time ago.”
Fifty-Six
Detective Joe Arnwright’s desk phone rang.
“Arnwright,” he said.
It was the front desk. “Got a Dr. White wants to see you.”
“Sure, send her in.”
It struck Arnwright as oddly fortuitous that Dr. White would choose to drop by at this particular moment. He had, on his desk, and his screen, the report on the death of Paul Davis. Everything about the investigation appeared in order. It was still impossible to say, definitively, that Davis had committed suicide. He had gone into the water, and he had drowned. Had he intended that to happen? In the absence of a suicide note, there was no way to know his state of mind.
One thing seemed certain. He had not gone for a swim. People did not generally go swimming in jeans, shirt, and shoes.
It was possible he’d fallen off a nearby pier and washed up onshore. There was a dock over by the bottom of Elaine Road. And there was that outcropping of rock at Pond Point to the west. Maybe he’d gone for a walk out there and lost his footing.
But the interviews Arnwright had conducted with the man’s current and former wives, friends, and therapist painted a picture of a deeply troubled man.
And yet, there was one small detail that bothered Arnwright. In all likelihood, it didn’t mean anything. But it nagged at him just the same. Maybe one more visit with Charlotte Davis was in order. Arnwright would have to think about that. He didn’t want to bother a woman who’d recently lost her husband with what might be a totally trivial question.
Anna White appeared at the door to the detectives’ room. Arnwright stood and gave her a wave. Anna threaded her way between some desks until she was at Arnwright’s.
“I know I should have called, but—”
“That’s okay. Sit. Can I get you something?”
Anna declined. They both sat. Arnwright closed the folder that was on his desk and minimized the program on his screen.
“Hitchens giving you more trouble?” Joe Arnwright asked. “Because we’ve got him good on this dognapping thing.”
“I’m pleased to hear that,” Anna said. “But that’s not why I’m here.” She sighed. “I’m not even sure that I should be here.”
Joe waited.
“You know, when you came to see me the other day, I told you how responsible I felt about what happened to Paul.”
Joe nodded.
“I told you I felt I failed him, and I still do feel that way, so this thing that’s been on my mind, I have to question my own motives. I may be looking subconsciously for a way to lessen the guilt I feel.”
“Can’t be all that subconscious if you’re aware of it,” the detective said.
“Yes, well, you make a good point there.”
“So what’s on your mind?”
Anna took a second to compose herself, and said, “I don’t think Paul was having delusions.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t think there was anything wrong with him. Yes, he’d been depressed. But I don’t think he was imagining the things he claimed to be hearing in the night. I think he heard something, but I don’t know what. And I don’t think he wrote the messages he was finding in the typewriter. Not consciously, or subconsciously. I don’t think he was having hallucinations. I don’t think he was mentally ill in any way whatsoever.”
Arnwright leaned back in his chair and took in what Anna White had said. “Okay.”
“I do concede that Paul was, during these last few days, extremely agitated because of what was going on at home. And that last night I saw him, he was incredibly distressed.”
“So, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say here. Are you saying you don’t think he committed suicide?”
“I’m not saying that.”
“So you think he did.”
“I don’t know.”
Joe Arnwright smiled. “Dr. White, I—”
“I think he might have done it. But, then again, I think he might not.”
“So you’re leaning toward this being an accident? Because that’s still within the realm of possibility.”
Anna White bit her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have come in. I’m making a fool of myself.”
“No, you’re not. What I do, Dr. White, is often based on a hunch, a feeling. Do you have a feeling about what happened?”
“I do.”
“And what is that feeling?”
“That if Paul did kill himself, he was driven to it.”
“Driven to it?”
Anna nodded. It took everything she had to force out the next few words. “And if he didn’t take his own life, someone took it for him.” She put her hands in her lap decisively, as though she had just gotten the toughest word at the spelling bee.
“You’re saying you think someone might have murdered Mr. Davis?”
Anna White swallowed. “I think it’s a possibility.”
“What makes you say that?” Arnwright asked.
“Because of what he said,” she blurted.
“Something Paul said?”
“No, not Paul. His friend. Bill Myers. I heard him whisper ‘It worked’ to Charlotte.”