“Did Dr. Wynekoop seem to get along with Rheta?”
“They had their tiffs, but Dr. Alice loved the girl. She was family. That evening, during dinner, she spoke of Rheta, in fact.”
“What did she say?”
“She was worried about the girl.”
“Because she hadn’t shown up for supper?”
“Yes, and after the meal she telephoned a neighbor or two, to see if they’d seen Rheta. But she also expressed a more general concern-Rheta was fretting about her health, you see. As I said, Rheta frequently stayed out. We knew she’d probably gone into the Loop to shop and, as she often did, she probably went to a motion picture. That was what we thought.”
“I see.”
Miss Shaunesey sat up, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “Of course, I’d noticed Rheta’s coat and hat on the table here in the library, but Dr. Alice said that she’d probably worn her good coat and hat to the Loop. Anyway, after dinner we talked, and then I went to the drug store for Dr. Alice, to have a prescription refilled.”
“When did you get back?”
“Well, you see, the drug store is situated at Madison and Kedzie. That store did not have as many tablets as Dr. Alice wanted, so I walked to the drug store at Homan and Madison and got a full bottle.”
“So it took a while,” I said, trying not to get irritated with her fussy old-maid-school-teacher thoroughness. It beat the hell out of an uncooperative, unobservant witness, though. I guessed.
“I was home by half past seven, I should judge. Then we sat down in the library and talked for about an hour. We discussed two books-Strange Interlude was one and the other was The Forsyte Saga.”
“Did Dr. Wynekoop seem relaxed, or was she in any way preoccupied?”
“The former,” Miss Shaunesey said with certainty. “Any concern about Rheta’s absence was strictly routine.”
“At what point did Dr. Wynekoop go downstairs to her consultation room?”
“Well, I was complaining of my hyperacidity. Dr. Alice said she had something in her office that she thought I could use for that. It was in a glass case in her consulting room. Of course, she never got that medicine for me.”
Dr. Wynekoop had been interrupted in her errand by the discovery of the body of her daughter-in-law Rheta. The corpse was face down on the examination table, head on a white pillow. Naked, the body was wrapped in a sheet and a blanket, snugged in around the feet and pulled up over the shoulders, like a child lovingly tucked into bed. Rheta had been shot, once, in the back. Her lips were scorched as if by acid. A wet towel was under her mouth, indicating perhaps that chloroform had been administered. A half-empty bottle of chloroform was found on the washstand. And a gauze-wrapped .32 Smith and Wesson rested on the pillow above the girl’s head.
“Dr. Wynekoop did not call the police?” I asked, knowing the answer. This much I remembered from the papers.
“No.”
“Or an undertaker, or the coroner’s office?”
“No. She called her daughter, Catherine.”
Earle looked up from his sherry long enough to interject: “Catherine is a doctor, too. She’s a resident at the Children’s Department at Cook County Hospital.”
And that was my logical first stop. I took the El over to the hospital, a block-square graystone at Harrison and Ogden; this job was strictly a West Side affair.
Dr. Catherine Wynekoop was a beautiful woman. Her dark hair was pulled back from her pale, pretty face; in her doctor’s whites, she sat in the hospital cafeteria stirring her coffee as we spoke.
“I was on duty here when Mother called,” she said. “She said, ‘Something terrible has happened at home…it’s Rheta…she’s dead…she has been shot.’”
“How did she sound? Hysterical? Calm?”
“Calm, but a shocked sort of calm.” She sighed. “I went home immediately. Mother seemed all right, but I noticed her gait was a little unsteady. Her hands were trembling, her face was flushed. I helped her to a chair in the dining room and rushed out in the kitchen for stimuli. I put a teaspoonful of aromatic spirits of ammonia in water and had her drink it.”
“She hadn’t called anyone bt you, as yet?”
“No. She said she’d just groped her way up the stairs, that on the way everything went black, she felt dizzy, that the next thing she knew she was at the telephone calling me.”
“Did you take charge, then?”
A half-smile twitched at her cheek. “I guess I did. I called Mr. Ahearn.”
“Mr. Ahearn?”
“The undertaker. And I called Dr. Berger, our family physician.”
“You really should have called the coroner.”
“Mother later said that she’d asked me to, on the phone, but I didn’t hear that or understand her or something. We were upset. Once Dr. Berger and Mr. Ahearn arrived, the coroner’s office was called.”
She kept stirring her coffee, staring into it.
“How did you and Rheta get along?”
She lifted her eyebrows in a shrug. “We weren’t close. We had little in common. But there was no animosity.”
She seemed goddamn guarded to me; I decided to try and knock her wall down, or at least jar some stones loose.
I said: “Do you think your mother killed Rheta?”
Her dark eyes rose to mine and flashed. “Of course not. I never heard my mother speak an unkind word to or about Rheta.” She searched her mind for an example, and came up with one: “Why-whenever Mother bought me a dress, she bought one for Rheta, also.”
She returned her gaze to the coffee, which she stirred methodically.
Then she continued: “She was worried about Rheta, actually. Worried about the way Earle was treating her. Worried about all the…well, about the crowd he started to run around with down at the World’s Fair. Mother asked me to talk to him about it.”
“About what, exactly?”
“His conduct.”
“You mean, his girl friends.”
She looked at me sharply. “Mr. Heller, my understanding is that you are in our family’s employ. Some of these questions of yours seem uncalled for.”
I gave her my most charming smile. “Miss Wynekoop…doctor…I’m like you. Sometimes I have to ask unpleasant questions, if I’m going to make the proper diagnosis.”
She considered that a moment, then smiled. It was a honey of a smile, making mine look like the shabby sham it was.
“I understand, Mr. Heller.” She rose. She’d never touched the coffee once. “I’m afraid I have afternoon rounds to make.”
She extended her hand; it was delicate, but her grasp had strength, and she had dignity. Hard to believe she was Earle’s sister.
I had my own rounds to make, and at a different hospital; it took a couple of streetcars to do the job. The County Jail was a grim, low-slung graystone lurking behind the Criminal Courts Building. This complex of city buildings was just south of a West Side residential area, just eight blocks south of Douglas Park. Old home week for me.
Alice Wynekoop was sitting up in bed, reading a medical journal, when I was led to her by a matron. She was in the corner and had much of the ward to herself; the beds on either side were empty.
She was of average size, but frail-looking; she appeared much older than her sixty-three years, her flesh freckled with liver spots, her neck creped. The skin of her face had a wilted look, dark patches under the eyes, saggy jowls.
But her eyes were dark and sharp. And her mouth was a stern line.
“Are you a policeman?” she asked. Her tone was neutral.
I had my hat in hand. “I’m Nathan Heller,” I said. “I’m the private investigator your son hired.”
She smiled in a business-like way, extended her hand for me to shake, which I did. Surprisingly strong for such a weak-looking woman.
“Pull up a chair, Mr. Heller,” she said. Her voice was clear and crisp. Someone very different than the woman she outwardly appeared to be lived inside that worn-out body.