“I don’t recall ever discussing such a thing with her,” he said. “But she was very interested in the details of her treatments and medications, Dr. Scarpetta. It is possible she could have researched the subject in our medical library. I do recall her asking numerous questions when I first prescribed levomethorphan. This was several years ago. Since it is experimental, she was curious, perhaps somewhat concerned …”
I was barely listening as he continued explaining and defending. I would never be able to prove Miss Harper had deliberately left the bottle of cough suppressant out where I would find it. But I was reasonably certain this was what she had done. She was determined to die with dignity and without reproach, but she did not want to die alone.
After I hung up, I fixed a cup of hot tea and paced the kitchen, pausing every so often to gaze out at the bright December day. Sammy, one of Richmond’s few albino squirrels, was plundering my bird feeder again. For an instant we were eye to eye, his furry cheeks frantically working, seeds flying out from under his paws, his scrawny white tail a twitching question mark against the blue sky. We had become acquainted last winter as I stood before my window and watched his repeated attempts at leaping from a branch only to slide slowly off the coned top of the feeder, his paws grabbing wildly at thin air on his way down. After a remarkable number of tumbles to terra firma, Sammy finally got the hang of it. Every so often I would go out and throw him a handful of peanuts, and it had gotten to the point where if I didn’t see him for a while, I experienced a tug of anxiety followed by joyous relief when he reappeared to clean me out again.
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.