“Meaning he shouldered the blame though it really wasn’t his fault?”
“I need another drink before I break another crown with all this damn ice,” she said, starting to rise.
“You thought it was Bruno’s fault, didn’t you? He left D.C. before the hammer fell, ruined your husband’s career and went on to head up the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Philadelphia. And there he garnered a bunch of high-profile convictions and rode that to a lucrative private practice and eventually to a run for the White House.”
“I see you’ve done your homework.”
“But your husband remained an admirer, so he didn’t share your belief, did he?”
She sat back down. “Bill was a good lawyer and an exceptionally bad judge of character. I have to hand it to Bruno; he said and did all the right things. Do you know that he called here to tell Bill he was running for president?”
King looked at her in surprise. “Really? When was that?”
“Couple of months ago. I answered the phone. Could have knocked me over with a stick hearing his voice. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but I didn’t. I held my tongue. We chatted like two old friends. He told me all the great things he’d done, his wonderful life in Philadelphia society. It made me want to throw up. Then I gave the phone to Bill, and they talked for a while. All Bruno wanted to do was gloat and rub it in. Let Bill know he’d risen so much further than Bill ever had.”
“I just assumed Bruno hadn’t had any contact with either of you for years.”
“Well, it was just the one phone call, and a damn irritating one at that.”
“Did Bill say anything on the phone that might have led to Bruno’s coming to see him at the funeral home?”
“No. Bill hardly talked at all. He was pretty weak even at that point. And I certainly didn’t say anything to Bruno that would get him all agitated. Although I wanted to, believe me.”
“About the stuff at the U.S. Attorney’s Office?”
“Among other things.”
“Did you ever have any proof?”
“Bruno was a lawyer, he covered his tracks well. His shit never stunk. He was long gone before it all came out.”
“Well, I guess you’re not really sorry he disappeared.”
“John Bruno can go to hell. In fact, I hope he’s already there.”
King leaned forward, and this time he put his hand on top of hers. “Millie, this is really important. Despite your husband’s autopsy being inconclusive, there is evidence that suggests he might have been poisoned, perhaps with methanol. You see, that method of poisoning would have been disguised in the embalming process. His death and his body’s being at that funeral home started this whole thing rolling. Whoever took Bruno couldn’t have left that to chance. Your husband had to be there at a certain time, meaning he had to die on a certain date.”
“That’s what the FBI said, but I’m telling you that no one could have been poisoning Bill. I would have known about it. I was with him every day.”
“Just you? Your husband was very ill before he died. Did you have any help? Anyone who came by? Any medication that he took?”
“Yes. And the FBI took it all to analyze and found nothing. I ate the same food, drank the same water. And I’m fine.”
King sat back and sighed. “Someone impersonated you at the funeral home.”
“So I heard. Well, I look good in black; it goes well with my new hair color.” She looked at King’s half-empty glass. “Would you like another?” He shook his head. She said, “Bill was a Scotch man too, right up to the end. It was one of the few pleasures he had left. Kept his own stash of twenty-five-year-old Macallan’s.” She chuckled. “He had some every night. I’d just pour a shot in his feeding tube using a big syringe. Eating he could have cared less about, but he looked forward to his Scotch even through his belly, and the man made it to eighty, not bad.”
“I bet you keep a good supply on hand.”
She smiled. “At our age, what’s left?”
King looked down at his glass. “How about you? Ever drink Scotch?”
“Never touch the stuff. Like I said, gin is my game. Scotch is too much like paint thinner. If you want to clear your sinuses out, by all means drink the stuff.”
“Well, thanks again. We’ll be in touch. Enjoy your evening.” King rose and started to turn away. He looked over at Joan, her drink and cigarette in hand, and he froze.
Paint thinner?
He whirled back around. “Millie, can you show me Bill’s special stash of Scotch?”
41
It was the Scotch, or at least Bill Martin’s secret cache, that Mildred Martin had never bothered to tell the police or FBI about. A relatively simple test at the police lab showed the bottle had been doctored with methanol.
King and Joan sat at the police station while Mildred was thoroughly interrogated.
Joan looked at King. “You’re lucky she poured yours out from her regular stock.”
King shook his head. “How’d the poisoned bottle get into the house?”
A man in a brown suit walked up to them. “I think we found that out.”
He was one of the FBI agents assigned to the case. Joan knew him well.
“Hello, Don,” said Joan. “This is Sean King. Don Reynolds.”
The men shook hands. “We owe you guys on this one,” said Reynolds. “Never would have guessed the Scotch, although she didn’t tell us about her husband’s secret cache. We had the other stuff tested previously.”
“It was Sean’s catch actually. Though I hate to admit it,” she added, smiling. “You said you know how the doctored Scotch got there?”
“A couple of months ago the Martins hired a woman to help around the house. To assist with Bill Martin, who was basically an invalid.”
“Mildred never mentioned that either?” King said incredulously.
“She said she didn’t think it was important. She said the woman never gave Bill any medication or anything, though she said she was licensed to. Mildred liked to do that herself. And the woman left long before Martin died, so Mildred didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Where’d the woman come from?”
“That was the thing. She just showed up one day, said she understood that they might need some help because of Bill’s condition, that she was a professional caregiver and was willing to come cheap because she needed the work. She had papers and stuff to show who she was.”
“And now where is this very accommodating lady?”
“She said she’d gotten a permanent job in another town, and that was it. Hasn’t been back.”
“Obviously she did come back,” said Joan.
Reynolds nodded. “Our theory is the woman came back to the house the day before Martin died and doctored the bottle, to make sure his next drink would be his last. The bottle of Scotch we found was loaded with methanol. Now, methanol is slow to metabolize into toxic levels. You’re looking at twelve to twenty-four hours. If he’d been young and healthy and been found immediately, maybe Martin could have made it to a hospital and survived. But he wasn’t young or healthy; he was terminal, in fact. And the Martins also didn’t sleep together. After Mildred gave her husband the last pop through his G-tube, the pain probably would have hit him very soon. And he only weighed about ninety pounds. Normally you’d need one hundred to two hundred milliliters of methanol to kill an adult. I doubt they needed anywhere near that to kill Martin.”
Reynolds shook his head and smiled wearily. “It’s ironic they put it in the Scotch. Scotch contains ethanol, which is an antidote to methanol, because they both seek the same enzyme. However, there was so much methanol in the bottle the ethanol couldn’t have countered it. Martin might have called out in agony, but Mildred never heard him, or so she says. So he might have lain there all night until he finally died. It’s not like he could get out of bed for help. He was a complete invalid by that time.”