Bad Medicine (31 page)

Molly wished she could have at least been surprised by Judith VanAck, the bereaved widow. Even if Molly hadn't known the woman, she would have known the type. Basically unchanged since the days she went to Vis or Mary Institute, pageboy blond hair, lots of kilt skirts and gold jewelry, perky breasts, and downturned mouth. A clique girl, a
soche,
they'd called them in Molly's day. Today Mrs. VanAck was wearing a tailored cotton shirt with Peter Pan collar, Pendleton slacks, and Pappagallos shoes. Two tennis bracelets, a diamond set that could take somebody's eye out, and small stud earrings, Vapid blue eyes that looked just a tad rheumy for this early in the afternoon.

She was perfectly cordial until Molly explained her mission.

"Medical Examiner's Office?" she echoed, her voice becoming breathy and distressed, her hand to her chest. "What do you want from me now? Haven't I been put through enough?"

"A few questions," Molly said, noticing that the inside of the house was just as unimaginative as its owner. Southwestern decor, designer-perfect. Of course. Next year it would be something new.

"I've been through so much," Judith VanAck repeated, eyes wet, hair perfect.

"I know, and I appreciate your help. If we could..."

Judith sighed and invited Molly on back into the sunroom, an uninspiring expanse of wicker and glass. There were oils of the children on the wall that made them look like Walt Disney had put them together from a diagram, and tables scattered with
Town & Country, M,
and
Architectural Digest.

"Mrs. VanAck," Molly said as she sat on fern-printed cushions, "I'm sorry to be blunt, but the truth is, we've found out that several of Mr. VanAck's acquaintances have also... taken their lives. I was wondering if you knew anything about it."

A hand went to her heart. "You can't think I had anything to do with it."

"No, ma'am. Of course not."

"I didn't... I've had so much to do, you know, with the children and Peter's estate and my job, and I just don't have the strength for this. I haven't even been able to work."

"Does the name the Shitkicker's Club mean anything to you?"

"God, no. Peter didn't belong to anything but the MAC, the Lawyer's Club, and Bellerive Country Club. He wasn't a joiner. I'm the joiner. I dragged him everywhere."

"Yes, ma'am. If I could give you some names..."

"We only saw business friends from the office. Were they from the office?"

"No. No, they weren't. They were other lawyers."

Judith VanAck was looking even more distressed. "I see. I know it's silly, but I never remembered names. And our social circle is out here. The neighborhood, our old high school group, you know."

Molly fought the urge to rub at her head. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea after all. All she could come up with from this was if she'd been Peter VanAck, she would have done anything to get away from this woman, too.

"Do you know anything about his investments, Mrs. VanAck? I know it's an odd question, but did he talk to you recently about anything special he saw as a good risk?"

"Just what he did with that investment group he belonged to."

Molly did her best to remain neutral. "Investment group?"

"Yes. They, uh, met over lunch, he said. An informal setup that produced excellent results. Our CPA said that we'll be well taken care of."

An investment group that met over lunch. Insider information. Jesus, Molly thought. Could she be this lucky?

"You don't remember who else might have been in this... group?"

"No. It was something that didn't interest me."

Molly nodded, made a show of taking notes, considering, as if she were trying to find her way. "Uh, did he mention anything specific that intrigued him, investment-wise? Peter, I mean."

"Oh, I guess. I never pay attention to that kind of thing, of course. Peter would go on and on about it, but frankly, that sort of thing bored me to tears. I didn't want to know drug prices and cost-and-whatever ratios and gambling legislation."

"Gambling legislation?"

A sigh, as the bereaved widow remembered how her husband had bored her with his attempts to establish her financial windfalls. "Oh, yes. He was so excited about that one. Said he got it all straight from the horse's mouth. We'd make a killing on it. There were several investments he'd found like that through the group."

Molly just bet. "You wouldn't have the list of stocks, would you?"

"God, no. I left that to the experts. It confuses me too much."

"And your husband didn't keep any kind of personal record? Just for himself, to see how he was doing?"

"In his den. He told me all about this spreadsheet program he bought just to handle that."

"Could I see his den, ma'am?"

Mrs. VanAck looked vaguely around, as if waiting for help. "You expect me to go up there?"

"I can go in alone, if you don't mind."

Molly ended up doing just that. Peter VanAck had built his den over the attached three-car garage, an efficiency decorated along the woodwork-and-wing-back-chair look, although enlivened with a surprise pair of Vega prints. Sterile and silent and empty now. Needing the same kind of pickless locks Molly now had to get in, and wired to the house alarm. Molly stepped back outside to catch the lovely widow surreptitiously checking her hair in one of the windows.

"Would it be okay if I looked at his computer, Mrs. VanAck?"

Judy jumped. "Oh, yes, I suppose, except that I don't think you'll find anything. It seems that he wiped it off before..."

"How did you find out?"

"I couldn't go up, you know. I mean, how could I face something like that? But the children can always use an extra computer, so I had Austin check and see if it still worked. He said that the entire thing had been... um, cleaned off."

"Austin?"

"My son. He's in school now."

And by the looks of the pictures, about ten. Nice gal. Sending her ten-year-old up to where his father had blown himself to hell rather than face it herself. Molly wondered if old Judith had made Austin clean up the mess, too.

* * *

Hopes now high, Molly went from Chesterfield to Ladue to see the heiress. She sat down to coffee with the dowdy brunette, Sidney St. John McGivers, on the patio of her house on Log Cabin Lane, and found herself liking the sharp-eyed, quiet woman very much.

Until she broke Molly's heart.

"No," she said most definitely. "Harry didn't do any of the investing. He wasn't interested in it at all."

"You're sure. I mean, you were..."

"Getting divorced." Sidney nodded. "Yes, we were. It turns out that Harry and I were much better parents when we lived in different places. But we did talk over everything we did for the children, and investments were certainly a part of that. Investing was my talent, not Harry's."

"He met with a group for lunch, though."

Mrs. McGivers nodded, her attention on the coffee she held in her hand. "Yes, I know. He didn't really join them for that, though. The companionship, I think. Harry wasn't... a comfortable person to be around. He was delighted to find a group that included him."

"He never suggested investing in the new gambling casino? Anything like that the group might have suggested?"

Another definite shake of the head. "Never. It just didn't interest him. Believe it or not, money was never Harry's motivator. Belonging was." She paused a moment, still watching the liquid in her cup, her heavy-lidded eyes a bit distant. "I guess that's why we're left with this mess. He said he wanted the divorce, but I think he didn't mean it. The last few weeks, he even started that if-I-can't-have-you-no-one-can business."

"Did he become violent?"

Molly knew she'd surprised the woman. Mrs. McGivers looked up, blushed a little. She seemed more surprised by her tears than her answer. "Yes."

* * *

Molly went from Ladue to University City to see the third wife. She went back up to north St. Louis to talk to Pearl's mama again. In the end all she came away with was a crushing headache and a front seat full of fast-food wrappers.

She simply couldn't find a conspiracy. Nothing that connected the five of them beyond those lunches. Nothing about the name William T. Peterson that rang bells among surviving family.

Even the investment itself hadn't panned out. In the end, it seemed that of the five, only Pearl and Peter had even invested in the company. There were no surprises, no families demanding more answers, no reason Molly could find that somebody would want her to stop looking into these deaths.

There was no reason to believe that they weren't what they appeared. The five members of the Shitkicker's Club had committed suicide. Each for a different reason, by a different method, without prior notice, but not without, in hindsight, fair warning.

Molly did a thorough and exemplary investigation into every aspect she could of each case, and still couldn't come up with a reason to call Rhett back and demand his time. She couldn't go back to the caves just to tell Joseph Ryan that she'd been wrong. So she went home feeling, for the first time, that she had absolutely no idea what it was she was doing that was so pissing people off.

* * *

Her new locks seemed to be working just fine. There wasn't a painting or piece of furniture out of place when she walked in. The same, unfortunately, couldn't be said about the kitchen.

"Been waiting long?" she asked the guilty party.

He hadn't actually waited. More like chewed and destroyed. Molly was glad she'd thought to erect the barricade, or one of the Hoppers might be the latest in doggy chews. As it was, many of Molly's mother's gourmet cookbooks were now hamster cage stuffing. Magnum, deliriously happy, greeted her on his back with all fours spread in anticipation of a good rub.

Molly didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Until she'd walked in to find that mess in her kitchen, she hadn't realized how God awful exhausted she was.

"Screw it, Thomas," she said to the mutt. "Let's just leave it."

Molly opened the door and was about to follow the puppy outside, when the phone rang. Even though she saw Sam working his way across to her yard, she picked up.

"Speak."

"Then you're okay."

Molly forgot Sam for a moment. "It's lovely to hear from you too, Frank. What's up?"

"Do you still have Peg Ryan's daykeeper?" he asked, his voice unusually businesslike.

Molly leaned around so she could see the coffee table in the family room where the large black leather binder rested. "What's it to ya?"

"The Ryans just called. Their house was broken into. Along with the TV, the stereo, and the VCR, Peg's stuff is missing."

Molly lowered herself into her chair. Oh yeah, she thought, wearily. This is definitely the way I want to end my day. "Are they all right?"

Frank sighed. "I guess. Her mom wanted to know if they could have the daykeeper back. They need addresses for flower thank-yous, and the only other place they had them was on Peg's computer, which was—"

"Stolen," Molly agreed. "Yeah. Let me go through it once more. You don't think this could be another uncanny coincidence, do you, Frank?"

"I hate that word, Burke. Whatever it is, though, we're finished. File it closed, and let's just go our merry way."

"Don't want to find out the truth?"

"Don't want to jeopardize this cushy life I have, Saint Molly. I worked hard for it, and I ain't givin' it back."

"Oh, thank God. And here [ thought you were worried for my welfare."

"You can take care of yourself. My bank balance can't."

"Did Peg invest in the gambling operation?"

"I told you I'm not asking questions like that anymore."

"It has to be something," she insisted, waving Sam inside. "I can't find anything else at all."

"Go back to nursing, Saint Molly. And be careful."

Sam actually backed in the door. "You know that beast of yours is trying to reach your goldfish?"

Feeling even worse than she had a minute ago, Molly hung up the phone and climbed wearily to her feet. "I hope he has better luck catching them than I have. It'll serve him right for massacring Mother's cookbooks. Tea, Sam?"

Sam turned around, squinted at her through a trail of cigarette smoke. "You look like you could use it."

She handed him the soup can she kept for an ashtray. "No Jewish proverbs, please. I'm not in the mood."

He settled himself into one of the plain oak kitchen chairs and tsked instead. "Did you give that office of yours my number?"

"A long time ago. Why?"

"Because when they couldn't find you, they found me instead. They want you to call."

Molly just waved a hand at him. Magnum was crouched flat on his belly out on the lawn, watching the fish circle. Molly figured that if his tail was wagging, the fish were safe. "I have a puzzle for you, Sam," she said as she started the tea, her gaze on the puppy, who was now yipping in frustration.

"What?"