Next I began a search of periodicals. Nothing. Beryl wrote books. Apparently she had not published anything, nor had there been any interviews of her, in magazines. Newspaper clips should be more promising. There were a few book reviews published in the Richmond Times over the past few years. But they were useless because they referred to the author by pen name. Beryl’s killer knew her by her real name.
Screen after screen of hazy white type went by. “Mab-erly,” “Macon,” and finally “Madison.”
There was one very short piece about Beryl published in the Times last November: AUTHOR TO LECTURE
Novelist Beryl Stratton Madison will lecture to the Daughters of the American Revolution this Wednesday at the Jefferson Hotel at Main and Adams streets. Ms. Madison, protegee of Pulitzer Prize-winner Gary Harper, is most known for historical fiction set during the American Revolution and the Civil War. She will speak on “The Viability of Legend as a Vehicle for Fact.”
Jotting down the pertinent information, I lingered long enough to locate several of Beryl’s books and check them out. Back at the office, I busied myself with paperwork, my attention continually tugged toward the phone. It’s none of your business. I was well aware of the boundary separating my jurisdiction from that of the police.
The elevator across the hall opened and custodians began talking in loud voices as they went to the janitorial closet several doors down. They always arrived at around six-thirty. Mrs. J. R. McTigue, listed in the paper as being in charge of reservations, wasn’t going to answer anyway. The number I had copied was probably the DAR’s business office, which would have closed at five.
The phone was picked up on the second ring.
After a pause, I asked, “Is this Mrs. J. R. McTigue?”
“Why, yes. I’m Mrs. McTigue.”
It was too late. There was no point in being anything other than direct. “Mrs. McTigue, this is Dr.
Scarpetta…”
“Dr. who?”
“Scarpetta,” I repeated. “I’m the medical examiner investigating the death of Beryl Madison …”
“Oh, my! Yes, I read about that. Oh, my, oh, my. She was such a lovely young woman. I just couldn’t believe it when I heard–”
“I understand she spoke at the November DAR meeting,” I said.
“We were so thrilled when she agreed to come. You know, she didn’t do much of that sort of thing.”
Mrs. McTigue sounded quite elderly, and already I had the sinking feeling this had been the wrong move. Then she surprised me.
“You see, Beryl did it as a favor. That’s the only reason it happened. My late husband was a fnend of Gary Harper, the writer. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Joe set it up, really. He knew it would mean so much to me. I’ve always loved Beryl’s books.”
“Where do you live, Mrs. McTigue?”
“The Gardens.”
Chamberlayne Gardens was a retirement home not far from downtown. It was just one more grim landmark in my professional life. Over the past few years, I’d had several cases from the Gardens and virtually every other retirement community or nursing home in the city.
“I’m wondering if I could stop by for a few minutes on my way home,” I said. “Would that be possible?”
“I think so. Why, yes. I suppose that would be fine. You’re Dr. who*”
I repeated my name slowly.
“I’m in apartment three-seventy-eight. When you come into the lobby, take the elevator up to the third floor.”
I already knew a lot about Mrs. McTigue because of where she lived. Chamberlayne Gardens catered to the elderly who did not have to rely on Social Security to survive. Deposits for its apartments were substantial, the monthly fee steeper than most people’s mortgages. But the Gardens, like others of its kind, was a gilded cage. No matter how lovely it was, no one really wanted to be there.
On the western fringes of downtown, it was a modern brick high rise that looked like a depressing blend of a hotel and a hospital. Parking in a visitor slot, I headed toward a lighted portico that promised to be the main entrance. The lobby gleamed with Williamsburg reproductions, many of the pieces bearing arrangements of silk flowers in heavy cut-crystal vases. On top of the wall-to-wall red carpet were machine-made Oriental rugs, and overhead was a brass chandelier. An old man was perched on a couch, cane in hand, eyes vacant beneath the brim of a tweedy English cap.