The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [59]
Several seats away, Janet Poulos watched helplessly, every muscle tensed by the prospect of Christine leaping to her feet, shouting her confession to the hall, then crying out the only other Sisterhood name she knew: Janet’s. God, she wished there had been enough warning to call Dahlia. Dahlia would have known exactly how to handle things.
Janet’s gaze moved past Christine to where Angela Martin sat, cool blue eyes fixed on the scene below, golden hair immaculately in place. The woman was absolutely nerveless. Even if it had been her name that Christine Beall knew, Janet doubted that Angela would have been ruffled. Almost ten years as members of The Sisterhood and they had never even known one another. Now they were best friends, sharing the excitement and rewards of The Garden and speculating about the mysterious woman who had brought them together.
Janet scanned the hall and wondered if Dahlia had eyes and ears present other than Lily’s and Hyacinth’s. Quite possibly, she acknowledged. The woman remained only a whispered voice on the telephone, but time and again Janet had been impressed with her cold logic and endless sources of information. Because of her The Garden was growing steadily—in other hospitals as well as in Boston Doctors. Anywhere there was a Sisterhood of Life member, there was a potential flower. Dahlia believed that more than anything else. The bottom line of both movements was the same: nurse and patient alone in a room. She had, perhaps, been hasty about Beall, but she remained a woman of near-perfect judgment whom Janet wanted desperately to know.
Powerless for the moment, Janet slid back in her seat and watched.
“Miss Beall?” Dalrymple called again. Winnie Edgerly nudged Christine. “I asked if you had anything to add to what I have told the lieutenant.”
Christine swallowed. Once, then again. Still, when she tried to speak only a sandpaper rasp emerged. She cleared her throat and tightened her grip on the arms of her seat.
“I’m sorry,” she managed. “No, I have nothing to add.”
Janet sighed relief and closed her eyes. Beall had come through.
Christine looked down to where David sat, head resting on one hand, staring vacantly at Dalrymple and Dockerty. She could feel as much as see his isolation. In fact, she realized, she too was isolated. Despite the calls from Peg, despite the words from Janet and the knowledge that the vast Sisterhood of Life was behind her, Christine felt marooned. At that moment she wanted to run to him and somehow reassure him. To tell him that she, above all people, knew he had nothing to do with Charlotte’s death. “Everything will be all right,” she told herself over and over again. “Just leave things alone and they will be all right.” She forced her concentration back to the scene being played out below her.
“Miss Dalrymple,” Dockerty continued, “you have a list of the medications given to Mrs. Thomas?”
Dalrymple nodded. “She was receiving chloramphenicol, which is an antibiotic, and Demerol, which is an analgesic.”
“No morphine?”
“No morphine,” she echoed, shaking her head for emphasis.
“No morphine …” Dockerty let the word drift away, but his voice was nonetheless loud enough for all those present to hear. “Tell me,” he said, “is it possible for one of the nurses or other hospital personnel to have gotten his hands on morphine sulfate in the quantities Dr. Hadawi has suggested were given Mrs. Thomas?”
Dalrymple thought the question through before answering. “The answer to your question is, of course, that anyone can get his hands on any drug if he has enough money and is willing to go outside the legal channels to do so. However, I can state that it would be virtually impossible for one of my nurses—or anyone else for that matter—to get away with more than a tiny quantity of narcotics from the hospital. You see, only a small amount of injectable narcotic is kept on each floor, and that is rigidly counted by two nurses at each shift change—one from the group that is leaving and one from the group that