When people want to make an entrance and can’t, they try the next best thing. Martin Callahan spun around gracefully.
“Ah, Dr. Marley. And Dr. Marley.” Circumnavigating his desk took him a while, so Plato and Cal met him halfway and shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you both. Have a seat.”
They sat in a pair of matching chairs covered in a surprisingly supple black leather. Callahan scrutinized them across the vast teak desk. Though their chairs were comfortable, his visitors had to tip their heads back to look up at him. A standing halogen lamp behind him cast a halo over his head, making it hard to read his eyes.
“Sheriff Cameron explained the purpose of our visit,” Cal began.
“Well, yes and no. The sheriff explained that you needed to talk to me concerning Rufus’s death. But I don’t see that I have much to add. I wasn’t even there at the time.” Though Callahan had a boyish face, Plato placed him in his mid-forties. Sleek black hair like an otter, and some of the mannerisms, too. His grave concern seemed artificial, like the spray that held his hair in place.
“You’ve already given your statement to Sheriff Cameron,” Cal explained. “But we wanted to talk to you in a less formal setting, perhaps get your impressions on a few things. We hope to learn a little more about Mr. Thorndyke from the people who knew him best.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. Rufus was a very good man, and I was proud to be associated with him.”
“How long had you known him?”
“Just three years. I met him at a health care conference down in San Diego, shortly before my old company folded. He had always been interested in health foods, holistic healing, that sort of thing.” Callahan chuckled. “We had some very interesting conversations. A couple of months after disaster struck my company, I gave him a call. He invited me up here to talk things over.”
He spread his hands to encompass the office, the building, the grounds. “Our partnership was quite successful. Of course, the market is much more open here. And Mardyke does much more than health foods now.”
“Strange,” Cal commented. “I never knew Rufus was into health foods.”
“Neither did most people. But he was a closet fanatic. It was our little secret.” He adjusted a gold cufflink. “People would frown upon a hospital board member who held those kinds of alternative health beliefs.”
Interestingly put. To Plato, it almost sounded like a religion.
“You weren’t at the party?” Cal asked.
“No, I wasn’t.” He sighed regretfully. “I was in California on business. I’d planned to come later in the evening, but the plane was delayed. Perhaps if I had been there...”
Plato could picture it. Rufus Thorndyke lying on the field like a corpulent Arthur while this holistic Merlin made passes over his face and stuffed his mouth with roots and berries.
“Was there any trouble with business? Disgruntled employees? Money problems?”
“Money was the least of our worries. For the third year in a row, the company’s revenues have continued to grow.” He shook his head sadly. “As for disgruntled employees, I’m afraid that’s very unlikely. Rufus was something of a silent partner. He almost never visited the plant. We’d meet informally, generally at my house. The day-to-day routine was left to me.”
“He and Jan visited you the day before the party—” Plato prompted.
“Yes.” Callahan frowned momentarily. “A celebration. Our research department has found a ‘loophole modification.’ With a subtle alteration, we can legally manufacture a certain very popular drug still under patent. It could be a big breakthrough.”
“And that was the last time you saw Rufus?”
He nodded. “We had a pool-side dinner. I’m something of a chef myself, though not of Mrs. Reiss’s caliber.”
“I see.” Cal smiled apologetically. “This may seem an offensive question, but what were the terms of the contract? Your answer is purely voluntary.”
“Oh, believe me, I have no trouble answering that,” Callahan replied. “There was no survivorship clause. Rufus’s shares reverted to his widow upon his death.”
That night, Plato was energizing Salisbury steak/broccoli/cheddarmac combination dinners when the telephone rang. He didn’t even hear it. Their microwave had crossed the Atlantic on the Mayflower. It had no light, the timer was broken, and the fan sounded like a jackhammer. Cal took the call in the other room.
“What’s up?” Plato asked when she returned to the table.
“It was Ian,” Cal replied. She removed the plastic lid from her dinner. The broccoli had apparently caught fire during reentry. It was smoking, and there was a charred hole in the dish. Frost still adorned most of the steak. She glanced at her husband. “We need a new micro-wave.”
“What did he want?” Plato replied. Through a freak accident, his dinner had come out perfect. “I can do yours again if you’d like.”
“I’d rather not.” Cal’s lip curled in disgust as she sawed the broccoli and melted plastic from the remainder of her meal. “Leonard Reiss was in an accident.”
“You’re kidding.” From her nonchalant tone, Plato honestly thought she was. But then, it was hard to tell with Cal. When she was really famished, very little could distract her. It was ten o’clock, and they had just finished their regular work at the hospital. “Is he all right?”
“Moderate concussion,” she mumbled through a mouthful of macaroni. “Hasn’t waked up yet. Wrecked his car coming down Sandy Ridge from his mother’s house after dinner. Sheriff was thinking it might be related.”
“Maybe he was just in a hurry to leave,” Plato said. “Any sign of tampering?”
“Plus-minus,” Cal replied. With the butt of her knife, she hammered her fork into the steak and gnawed it like a Popsicle. “The brake fluid was pretty low. Air in the lines. But the lines themselves were intact. Ian thinks someone might have messed with the master cylinder.”
“But why would they want to kill Leonard Reiss? His writing’s bad, but that’s true for most of the Herald Press.”
“Guess again.”
Crunching his broccoli, he considered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Of course! Mrs. Reiss drives exactly the same kind of car. She told us.”
“Bingo. The sheriff asked for a state cop to guard her. Seems she might be very important to this case.” Cal frowned at her steaksicle. “This is really awful.”
With a grunt of resignation, she slipped it into the micro-wave, holding the power button down for a minute or so. The meat emerged steaming, juicy, and appetizing.
The phone rang again, but Cal just placed it inside the refrigerator. It bleated faintly like a lost sheep. Plato rose to answer it.
“No!” Cal ordered. “Whatever it is, it can wait. If the hospital wants you, they’ll use your pager.”
While she wolfed the rest of her meal, Plato summarized the interviews with Homer and Jan Thorndyke.
“She seems to have sold you,” Cal noted.
He shrugged. “Maybe. She certainly has the motive — Rufus was worth a few million at last count. And who knows how much the Mardyke stock could bring? But she seemed too upset. It couldn’t be an act.”
“You may be an obstetrician, but you don’t know women,” Cal said. “When we put our minds to it, we can be the best actors in the world.”
“You weren’t there, Cal,” he reminded his wife. “You didn’t talk to her.”
They were at an impasse until the doorbell rang.
Ian again. Plato showed him into the kitchen, asked if he’d eaten.
“No.” He sat at the table, scrutinized Cal’s plate. “But I’ve been trying to trim up a bit.”