SUSAN RELUCTANTLY OKAYED ANOTHER TRIP down to LA. I insisted that I needed to talk to Helen face-to-face, confront her with the idea of Claire Fanning in person. So here I am on United Flight 42 to LAX, jammed next to a middle-aged older man who started out the flight working on an Excel spreadsheet, but is now playing Spider Solitaire. He swears loudly when he can’t find a solution and has to reshuffle. I find myself thanking God for Peter, who only opens his laptop when he’s ready to bang out another chapter of his dissertation. Be grateful for small things, I tell myself. Even if those chapters are slow to come. Peter seems to be making an effort recently. He even packed for me, and when I opened my purse to get my driver’s license out for airport security, I found a bar of dark chocolate with almonds in it. I almost drove home to give Peter a kiss.
When I reach the UCLA hospital, I have to show my badge about ten times. I suppose that means the media are still trying to get through to Helen. I think of Claire. If they only knew. Especially if they managed to get a photograph of her. That face would sell a lot of magazine covers.
When I knock on Helen’s office door, it is opened almost immediately by a woman with a blond pixie cut.
“I’m here for Dr. Richter,” I say.
She laughs. “Sam,” she says. “It’s me.” Now I recognize her, but barely. And it’s not just the hair. Helen also appears younger and much less serious—like a schoolgirl, lighthearted.
“Well!” I say.
She ushers me into her office, which looks the same, the comfy chairs, the stuffed animals lying all over the floor.
“More about John?” she asks as she settles into her chair. She pulls a kind of black knitted shawl around her shoulders. It’s too cool; the air conditioner is turned up high.
“I know,” she says, catching me shiver. “We have no control in the offices and examining rooms, and they keep it chilly in the summer.”
Summer. It’s now mid-August. I can’t think of another year where the summer has gone by so quickly, or which I’ve enjoyed less. Usually, Peter and I spend a good deal of our weekends and evenings outdoors at concerts and picnics. But this time all that has seemed to fall off the cliff. Or perhaps I simply haven’t been paying attention due to the slow-moving Taylor case, and Peter hasn’t been reminding me.
“What happened?” I ask, gesturing at her hair.
Helen smiles. “An experiment,” she says. “One that turned out splendidly.” It is only then that I see the slight bump at her waistline. After any number of social gaffes, my rule is to never ask anyone if they’re pregnant unless I see an actual baby coming out. But this time I can’t help myself.
“You’re pregnant!” I gasp. She nods. “Is it John’s?” I ask, then curse my stupidity. Of course it is.
We sit for a moment in silence. Helen doesn’t seem to find the pause uncomfortable, but I am squirming in my chair.
“I thought you had a deal that there’d be no children,” I say.
“We did,” says Helen. “But life had other plans.”
“Did John know?” I ask.
A shadow passes over Helen’s face. “No,” she says abruptly. “I never got the chance to tell him.” She then changes the subject to signal that part of the conversation is over. “That’s not why you’re here. What do you need from me at this point?”
“It’s about John,” I say. “Or rather . . .” I hesitate. “About the situation.” My mind is still reeling.
“Yes?” she asks, but doesn’t really seem interested. She’s looking extraordinarily healthy and happy, almost obscenely so in this room, which is likely viewed as a chamber of death by her patients’ parents.
“Another woman has turned up.” I say, and wait.
She laughs. Whatever reaction I’d expected, this wasn’t it.
“Not another wife,” she says.
“No, but someone who wanted to supersede all of you,” I say. “A fiancée.” Then, curious, I ask, “How would you have felt if John told you he wanted to end the relationship?”
She appears to give my question serious consideration.
“Before,” and she pats her bump, “I would have been devastated. But now? I’m not particularly concerned.”
We sit and look at each other. “And when did you find out you were pregnant?” I ask.
“Not until after John was dead,” she says.
I consider this.
“I don’t believe you,” I say suddenly.
She smiles. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to assume I’m the ultimate expert witness in this regard,” she says. I’m struck by the fact that she seems to be treating this like a game.
“Your alibi is the most porous, you know,” I tell her.
“Do you have any evidence against me that places me in Palo Alto? Hundreds of miles from home?” she asks.
“No,” I admit.
“So I must have been particularly clever,” she suggests. For the first time, I find myself actively disliking her.
“A man is dead,” I say. “And one of you three almost certainly did it.”
She smiles again.
“If you can guess who,” she says. “You win the prize.”
49
Samantha