Sitting down at the kitchen table, a pad of paper and pen in hand, I dialed the number for Valhalla.
“Jeanie Sample, please.” I did not identify myself.
“Is she a patient, ma’am?” the desk clerk asked without pause.
“No. She’s an employee …” I acted addled. “I think so, at any rate. I haven’t seen Jeanie in years.”
“One moment, please.”
The woman came back on the line. “We have no record of anybody by that name.”
Damn. How could that be? I wondered. The telephone number listed with her name on the medical examiner’s report was Valhalla’s number. Had Dr. Brown made a mistake? Nine years ago, I thought. A lot could happen in nine years. Miss Sample could have moved. She could have gotten married.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Sample is her maiden name.”
“Do you know her married name?”
“How awful. I should know–”
“Jean Wilson?”
I paused with uncertainty.
“We have a Jean Wilson,” the voice went on. “One of our occupational therapists. Can you hold, please?”
Then she was back very quickly. “Yes, her middle name is listed as Sample, ma’am. But she doesn’t work on the weekend. She’ll be back Monday morning at eight o’clock. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Any possibility you could tell me how to get in touch with her?”
“We’re not allowed to give out home numbers.”
She was beginning to sound suspicious. “If you’ll give me your name and number, I can try to get hold of her and ask her to call you.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be at this number long.”
I thought for a moment, then sounded dismally disappointed when I added, “I’ll try again–next time I’m in the area. And I suppose I can write her at Valhalla, at your address.”
“Yes, ma’am. You can do that.”
“And that address is?”
She gave it to me.
“And her husband’s name?”
A pause. “Skip, I believe.”
Sometimes a nickname for Leslie, I thought. “Mrs. Skip or Leslie Wilson,” I muttered, as if I were writing it down. “Thank you so much.”
There was one Leslie Wilson in Charlottesville, directory assistance informed me, and one L. P. Wilson and one L. T. Wilson. I started dialing. The man who answered when I tried the number for L. T. Wilson told me “Jeanie” was running errands and would be home within the hour.
I knew that a strange voice asking questions over the phone wasn’t going to work. Jeanie Wilson would insist on conferring with Dr. Masterson first, and that would end the matter. It is, however, a little more difficult to refuse someone who unexpectedly appears in the flesh at your door, expecially if this individual introduces herself as the chief medical examiner and has a badge to prove it.
Jeanie Sample Wilson didn’t look a day over thirty in her jeans and red pullover sweater. She was a perky brunette with friendly eyes and a smattering of freckles over her nose, her long hair tied back in a ponytail. In the living room beyond the open door, two small boys were sitting on the carpet, watching cartoons on television.
“How long have you been working at Valhalla?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Uh, about twelve years.”
I was so relieved I almost sighed out loud. Jeanie Wilson would have been employed there not only when Jim Barnes was fired nine years ago, but also when Al Hunt was a patient two years before that.
She was planted squarely in the doorway. There was one car in the drive, in addition to mine. It appeared her husband had gone out. Good.
“I’m investigating the homicides of Beryl Madison and Gary Harper,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “What do you want from me? I didn’t know them–”
“May I come inside?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. Please.”
We sat inside her small kitchen of linoleum and white Formica and pine cabinets. It was impeccably clean, with boxes of cereal neatly lined on top of the refrigerator, and counters arranged with big glass jars filled with cookies, rice and pasta. The dishwasher was running, and I could smell a cake baking in the oven.
I intended to beat down any lingering resistance with bluntness. “Mrs. Wilson, Al Hunt was a patient at Valhalla eleven years ago, and for a while was a suspect in the cases in question. He was acquainted with Beryl Madison.”