Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(39)

“That’s correct. As you know, I was in and out of meetings that included lunches and dinners,” I reply, and several days went by with our barely talking on the phone, both of us too busy. “I wasn’t in my room much, and the bottle remained wrapped in paper inside its bag on top of the closet safe.”

“In other words, it was accessible.”

“Unfortunately.” I feel stupid again. “Then it was in my luggage for the flight from Paris to London, where I stopped off for a day of meetings.”

It’s unthinkable what might have happened had I regifted the regift, passing along the tainted bottle to someone else the same way the secretary general did with me. Dinner was with New Scotland Yard’s commissioner, and I spent a hospitable evening at her home. What if I’d shown up with that 1996 Bordeaux?

“As you know,” I remind Benton, “I was in London only one night, leaving the wine in my luggage. The next morning, it was on to Dulles.”

“Adding even more opportunities, unfortunately,” he says.

“Since then, it’s been here in the basement until last night.”

“The least likely site of the tampering is our house. But I’m not saying it didn’t happen here. For sure, there were workmen in and out while we’ve been getting the place in shape.”

But since returning from France with the wine there have been few people in and out. Mostly it’s been the security system troubleshooters, the police who’ve continued showing up when there are false alarms and other malfunctions.

“GOOD GOD, BENTON.” FRUSTRATED, I push back the covers. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to trust anything anymore. Whether we’re talking about someone negative for a deadly virus or if something is safe to eat or drink. And who’s okay to allow on your property. Not to mention, what’s true or false.”

“It wouldn’t be your average bear who tampered with the wine,” he says, and of course he’s right. “This was meticulously premeditated by someone who knows what he’s doing.”

My head might split open, another wave of nausea, and I couldn’t be more annoyed with myself.

You of all people know better!

I should have been warier, more on guard. But it’s hard to live like that constantly, and I’d be the first to admit I was preoccupied with far more than the demands of my first Doomsday Commission international symposium. I was distracted by my grief-stricken niece who isn’t at her best when dealing with her emotions.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to mend her broken heart, to fill the emptiness and stop the hurt. When the secretary general presented me with the Bordeaux, my first thought was Lucy’s birthday coming up. I imagined surprising her with her favorite meal accompanied by an exceptional wine that I carried home from France.

Best of all was the thought of spending quality time in front of the fire. I’d make sure it was just the two of us. We’d talk about the good times from the past, and better days to come. Drinking a toast to them, I’d remind her of the infinite possibilities ahead.

Never eat or drink anything from a stranger!

Except Gabriella Honoré isn’t one, and the voice in my head is Marino’s, not mine. I’ve been hearing it nonstop, making me feel carped at the same way my mother did, reminding me of every mistake I’ve ever made including my profession. A doctor to the dead because I can’t bother with the living, she’d tell anyone who’d listen.

“This would be a good day to stay in, maybe work in bed, review all those old dusty files you keep dragging around,” Benton says. “I’ll bring you breakfast, I know just the thing.”

“Not yet. My stomach has to settle. As soon as possible, I need to get to the office to see what’s going on with confirming Gwen Hainey’s identification so the police can notify the family. Not that they don’t already know from the news,” I’m reminded unpleasantly.

“Her murder has gone viral on the Internet, all sorts of theories cropping up,” Benton says.

Lowering my feet to the floor, I stand up unsteadily, and he’s close by and at the ready.

“You’re dressed as if you’re going somewhere.” I put my arm around his slender waist. “Either that or starring in an action movie. What’s on your agenda today besides dropping me off to get my car?”

“I never really went to bed,” he says as I try walking on my own. “I changed into something practical, that’s all, and you’re not driving anywhere for a while even if you think you’re back to normal. How are you doing?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.” He pulls me closer.

“I’ve been better but I’ll be okay,” I repeat. “What have you been up to all night?”

He answers vaguely that there’s been much to keep everybody scurrying about. Lucy has been reviewing security videos, making sure no one has been on the property that we don’t know about, he says.

“We’re talking about hours and hours of footage to review, and I was with her in the cottage for a while,” Benton explains.

I head toward the windows, barefoot, and in scrubs I don’t remember putting on.

“We’re checking the security recordings going back to before we moved in,” he says. “For one thing, to make sure no one might have been casing the place prior to our getting here.”