All the Dark Places(19)
They both shake their heads. “It was a fun evening,” Mrs. Pearson says, sniffs and paws through her purse, pulls out a wad of tissues. “We can’t believe someone would do this to Jay.”
“He say anything to either of you in the days preceding that indicated he was worried about anything, anyone?”
“No,” she says.
Mr. Pearson’s gaze settles on Chase’s phone as Chase types quickly. “He seemed fine to me,” he adds, clears his throat.
“Okay, Mr. Pearson, walk us through the evening, if you would,” I say, and sit back, observing his face as he goes through pretty much the same scenario as the others. He loses some of the attitude as he tells his story, as if he realizes he sounded like a dick when the interview began. He ends his tale with his hands folded on the table.
“Can either of you think of anything that might shed light on Dr. Bradley’s death?”
“No.” Mrs. Pearson wipes her nose and sticks the tissue back in her purse. “Do you think it was one of his patients? Someone who had severe mental problems?”
“Could be.”
I look over my notes. “You guys live about a ten-minute drive from the Bradleys?”
“Yes. About,” Mrs. Pearson says.
“You both go right home, right to bed after the party?”
“Yes,” Mr. Pearson says. “We didn’t know anything was wrong until Molly called the next morning.”
“Uh huh.” I scribble in my notebook, a quick sketch of both of them next to my observations. “Either of you have anything to add that might help us find your friend’s killer?”
Neither of them does, and they leave, Mr. Pearson’s hand firmly on his wife’s back.
*
I turn on the lights in my apartment and drop my takeout bag on the coffee table. I head into my bedroom, peel off my work clothes and slip into yoga pants and an old Rolling Stones concert T-shirt. On my way through the kitchen, I pour a glass of wine and set it next to my burger and fries. I flip through my vinyl collection, place a record on the turntable and Crosby, Stills and Nash fill the apartment with heavenly harmonies. I get settled on the couch, take a sip of wine and sigh, then drag my satchel over. I put on my gloves and take out Dr. Bradley’s planners. I’m just about to open the newest one, stamped with this year’s date, when voices erupt from the foyer.
Mrs. Antonelli, my new neighbor, is screeching at her son or daughter. Don’t know which one yet. They helped her move in last month. Apparently, they sold her house out from under her, as she put it, but she refused to move into the senior care facility they picked out. The compromise was the apartment across the foyer from mine. The daughter lives around the corner. It seems Mrs. Antonelli is unable to finish a conversation in the confines of her own place, and I’m treated to a loud dialogue practically on my doorstep whenever anyone comes or goes, and that’s often. For a tiny eighty-two-year-old, she has a strong, loud voice. The son’s and daughter’s voices are gentle hums between her bursts of conversation or shouting, as the case may be.
I want to enjoy my evening in peace, so I wait to open the planner until I hear the heavy front door close. A low voice that probably belongs to the son is inscrutable but prompts a rejoinder from his mother that I can definitely hear loud and clear.
“You’re coming back Friday? Leo!”
Yup. The son. More low conversation. The outside door creaks open.
“Leo? What? Okay then, if that’s the best you can do.” The front door closes, and a second later, Mrs. Antonelli’s door slams. Thank God.
I nibble cold fries straight from the bag and sip my wine and open the first planner. The pages are still crisp and white. Only the first week of January has any writing on it, but I flip through the other pages, just in case, but there’s nothing there. No more plans. Only the sad reminder that this man’s life has ended.
There are two notations. January 4: “Birthday.” And Thursday, January 2: “Lunch with Hayes.” I sift back through my notes, looking for anyone named Hayes, but don’t see it written anywhere. He wasn’t at the party, so who is he? I make a note to ask the wife tomorrow.
I set the planner aside, bite into my burger, which, thankfully isn’t stone cold, and reach for the other planner. It was well used, slightly puffy, pages filled with notes in various colored ink, a stain of perhaps coffee here and there. Just by the feel of it, Dr. Bradley was a busy man. I start at the back, December. There are several notations for Christmas activities. Dinner dates with his wife and a smattering of friends’ names corresponding to his birthday party guests. On December 9, he wrote, “Meet Laken at spa, 12:30.” Maybe he went in for a massage. Thursday, December 19: “Pub, Josh and Cal.” So he had a few beers with his buddies. Then I see something that has me sitting up straight, setting my wineglass on the coffee table.
On Monday, December 30, Dr. Bradley had noted an appointment at a prison in Connecticut. What was he doing there? I look back through the rest of the planner. There are no other appointments listed for that facility or any other prison. Everything else looks to be purely social. An ex-patient? Or was Dr. Bradley conducting interviews for his book? Another question for the Mrs., although she might not know. She doesn’t appear to know much of anything of her husband’s professional life. Maybe a question for Dr. Westmore instead. I tidy my notes, outline my questions for Mrs. Bradley for tomorrow, and finish my wine.