“Last night after dinner you said that you wished you could help me,” David said. “Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Angela said.
“You might get your wish,” David said. “An hour ago I asked the Schiller family if they would permit an autopsy. They said they’d think about it overnight and talk to me tomorrow.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not up to the family,” Angela said. “The hospital doesn’t do autopsies on CMV patients.”
“But I have another idea,” David said. “You could do it on your own.”
Angela considered the suggestion. “Maybe I could,” she said. “Tomorrow is Sunday and the lab is closed except for emergency chemistries.”
“That was exactly my thought,” David said.
“I could go to the hospital with you tomorrow and talk to the family,” Angela said, warming to the idea.
“I’d appreciate it,” David said. “If you could find some specific reason why she died, it would make me feel a whole lot better.”
17
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 24
David and Angela were exhausted in the morning, but Nikki was well rested. She’d slept through the night without a nightmare and was eager to begin the day.
On Sundays the Wilsons got up early for church, followed by brunch at the Iron Horse Inn.
Attending church had been Angela’s idea. Her motivation wasn’t religious, it was social. She thought it would be a good way to join the Bartlet community. She’d settled on the Methodist church on the town green. It was far and away the most popular in town.
“Do we have to go?” David whined that morning. He was sitting on the side of the bed. He was trying to dress with clumsy fingers. He’d again awakened before dawn despite having gone to sleep so late. He’d lain awake for several hours. He’d just fallen back asleep when Nikki and Rusty had come bounding into the room.
“Nikki will be disappointed if we don’t go,” Angela called from the bathroom.
David finished dressing with resignation. A half hour later, the family climbed into the Volvo and drove into town. From past experience they knew to park in the Inn’s parking lot and walk to the green. Parking near the church itself was always a disaster. The traffic on a Sunday was so bad it had to be supervised by one of the town’s policemen.
That morning Wayne Robertson was on duty as traffic controller. A stainless-steel whistle protruded from his mouth.
“Isn’t this handy,” Angela said as soon as she spotted him. “You guys wait here.”
Darting away before David could stop her, Angela went directly to the chief of police with the anonymous note in hand.
“Excuse me,” Angela said. “I have something I’d like you to see. This was nailed to our door last night while we were in bed.” She handed him the note, then rested her knuckles on her hips, her arms akimbo, waiting for his response.
Robertson allowed the whistle to drop from his mouth. It was attached by a cord around his neck. He glanced at the note, then handed it back. “I’d say it’s a good suggestion. I recommend that you take the advice.”
Angela chuckled. “I’m not asking your opinion as to the note’s suggestion,” she said. “I want you to find out who left it on our door.”
“Well, now,” he said slowly, scratching the back of his head, “it’s not a lot to go on except for the fact that it was obviously typed on a nineteen fifty-two Smith Corona with a defective lowercase ‘o.’ ”
For an instant, Angela began to reevaluate her estimation of Robertson’s abilities. But then she realized he was making fun of her.
“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” Angela said with commensurate sarcasm, “but considering your attitude toward the Hodges murder case, I guess we can’t expect miracles.”
Honking horns and a few shouts from frustrated drivers forced Robertson’s attention back to the traffic, which had quickly become a muddle. As he did his best to unsnarl the congestion, he said: “You and your little family are newcomers to Bartlet. Maybe you ought to think twice about interfering in matters that don’t concern you. You’ll only make trouble for yourself.”