A Noise Downstairs(92)

“I know I should have called, but—”

“That’s okay. Sit. Can I get you something?”

Anna declined. They both sat. Arnwright closed the folder that was on his desk and minimized the program on his screen.

“Hitchens giving you more trouble?” Joe Arnwright asked. “Because we’ve got him good on this dognapping thing.”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Anna said. “But that’s not why I’m here.” She sighed. “I’m not even sure that I should be here.”

Joe waited.

“You know, when you came to see me the other day, I told you how responsible I felt about what happened to Paul.”

Joe nodded.

“I told you I felt I failed him, and I still do feel that way, so this thing that’s been on my mind, I have to question my own motives. I may be looking subconsciously for a way to lessen the guilt I feel.”

“Can’t be all that subconscious if you’re aware of it,” the detective said.

“Yes, well, you make a good point there.”

“So what’s on your mind?”

Anna took a second to compose herself, and said, “I don’t think Paul was having delusions.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t think there was anything wrong with him. Yes, he’d been depressed. But I don’t think he was imagining the things he claimed to be hearing in the night. I think he heard something, but I don’t know what. And I don’t think he wrote the messages he was finding in the typewriter. Not consciously, or subconsciously. I don’t think he was having hallucinations. I don’t think he was mentally ill in any way whatsoever.”

Arnwright leaned back in his chair and took in what Anna White had said. “Okay.”

“I do concede that Paul was, during these last few days, extremely agitated because of what was going on at home. And that last night I saw him, he was incredibly distressed.”

“So, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say here. Are you saying you don’t think he committed suicide?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“So you think he did.”

“I don’t know.”

Joe Arnwright smiled. “Dr. White, I—”

“I think he might have done it. But, then again, I think he might not.”

“So you’re leaning toward this being an accident? Because that’s still within the realm of possibility.”

Anna White bit her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have come in. I’m making a fool of myself.”

“No, you’re not. What I do, Dr. White, is often based on a hunch, a feeling. Do you have a feeling about what happened?”

“I do.”

“And what is that feeling?”

“That if Paul did kill himself, he was driven to it.”

“Driven to it?”

Anna nodded. It took everything she had to force out the next few words. “And if he didn’t take his own life, someone took it for him.” She put her hands in her lap decisively, as though she had just gotten the toughest word at the spelling bee.

“You’re saying you think someone might have murdered Mr. Davis?”

Anna White swallowed. “I think it’s a possibility.”

“What makes you say that?” Arnwright asked.

“Because of what he said,” she blurted.

“Something Paul said?”

“No, not Paul. His friend. Bill Myers. I heard him whisper ‘It worked’ to Charlotte.”

“That’s it,” Arnwright said. “Just those two words.”

Anna nodded sheepishly. “When I asked him what he meant by that, he came up with a story about how he got a printer to work so he could have a copy of the eulogy he gave. But he didn’t read a printed speech. It was handwritten. I saw it. He lied to me.”

“Okay,” Arnwright said, doing his best to tamp down the skepticism in his voice.

“I also asked Mr. Myers about talking Paul out of going to the hospital.” She paused. “It’s like he wanted to make sure Paul was where he could get to him. Almost like he didn’t want Paul to get away, to get help.”

Arnwright frowned. “Okay, so all these things that happened with the typewriter, you’re suggesting it was a setup?”

Anna nodded.

“Why?”

Again, Anna struggled to get the words out. “I think Bill Myers and Charlotte Davis might be having an affair.”

“You have any evidence of that?”

Anna hesitated. “Not really.”

“So that’s just a feeling, too, then.”

“It was the way . . . they held hands. And . . . I guess that’s all. Body language, I suppose.” Another anxious swallow. “I’ve learned to read that kind of thing over the years.”

“Body language,” Arnwright said.

“I know. I must sound ridiculous.”

“You said you think Mr. Davis was set up. How on earth would they do that?” the detective asked.

“I . . . have no idea.” She shook her head. “There’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“The boxes.”