The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [83]
“Ida, please!” Christine’s shout produced instant silence. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s right here. In the Globe. I thought you knew. Here, keep the paper. Just leave me the TV section. I forgot to get a TV Guide while I was at the market.”
She talked on, but Christine no longer heard her. The newspaper rustled in her hands even after she had folded back the page. “SURGEON CHARGED WITH MERCY KILLING; RELEASED ON BAIL,” she read.
Color flashed in her cheeks, then drained. “Oh, my God,” she said softly as she read the account of David’s arrest and arraignment. “Oh, my God …”
Ida’s verbal onslaught continued for another minute, then slowed and finally stopped. Christine read the article one word at a time, unaware that her landlady’s gaze was now riveted on her.
Ida brought a chair from the kitchen table and Christine sank down numbly as she read the last few lines.
Reliable Globe sources report that Shelton filled prescriptions for large quantities of morphine on the day of Mrs. Thomas’s death. Attorney Glass declined comment on the evidence, but reasserted his confidence in the innocence of his client. “When all the facts are in,” he said, “I am sure the truth will be learned and my client will be vindicated.” Dr. Shelton has been released on $100,000 bail. No date for trial has been set.
Ida rushed to the sink, wet a washcloth, and rubbed the cold compress over Christine’s forehead. For almost a minute Christine made no move to stop her. Finally she nodded and gently pushed Ida’s hand away.
“I guess you hadn’t heard?” Ida said. “You know this David?” Miraculously, she stopped at two questions.
“Yes. I … know him,” Christine said. David Shelton had been in and out of her thoughts since the day they’d first met on Four South. Nothing persistent or overwhelming—or even well defined—but he was there. Dockerty’s inquiry had given her reason to talk about him with other nurses without seeming too obvious or interested.
Ida Fine rubbed her hands together anxiously. “Chrissy, your face is the color of my Swedish ivy. You want me to help you to bed or … or to call a doctor?”
Christine shook her head. “Ida, I’m all right. Really. But I have got to be alone for a while. Please?”
“Okay, I’m going. I’m going,” Ida said. The pout invaded her voice more by reflex than by intention. “If you need me, I’m right upstairs. Also food, if you need food … keep the paper …” She was still talking as she backed out the door.
Christine read the article a second time, then wrote Ben Glass’s name and law firm in her address book. Why had David purchased so much morphine? And on the day Charlotte died. A coincidence? Perhaps, but certainly not an easy one to accept. Maybe the hospital rumors were true this time. Maybe he does use drugs. Or deal them. Possibly both. But her sense of the man, however hazy, would not permit her to believe that was true.
She pressed her fingers against her temples as a dull, pulsing ache began accompanying each heartbeat. It really made no difference, she realized, why David had purchased morphine. She knew what she had done with the vials left her by The Sisterhood, and there was simply no way she could allow him to suffer for that. It had seemed so right, she thought. Damn it, it was right. Charlotte wanted it. The Committee approved. She hadn’t acted alone. She closed her eyes tightly against the pulses, which had become hammers. Every tiny movement of her head made the pounding worse.
“Lie down,” she told herself. “Find some aspirin, some Valium—something—and lie down.” She blinked at the kitchen light, which had suddenly grown sun bright, then pulled herself to her feet. At that instant the doorbell rang.
She moved awkwardly to the stove. Tea, must make her some tea, she thought. The bell sounded again, more insistently.
With a groan Christine turned and raced through the hallway to the front door.
Dotty Dalrymple, wearing a purple overcoat, looked more imposing than usual. She smiled warmly from beneath a broad-brimmed