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“Oh, Jesus.” His voice sounded like rending cloth.
He pushed himself away from the door and trudged across the tile floor. Barrie and Gray were on either side of him, ready to lend support. George Allan came into the room. His vehement protests went unheeded.
When they reached the gurney, the senator simply stood there gazing down at the blue sheet, his large hands hanging heavily at his sides.
“Clete?” Gray said.
The senator nodded. Gray picked up two corners of the sheet and pulled it back.
A gasp went up as they stared down into the face of the cadaver, into the face of Jayne Gaston, R.N.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Jayne Gaston was the private nurse hired by George Allan to care for Vanessa while she was in seclusion at Highpoint.” Barrie lay on her back on the cot on which Cronkite had taken his naps when she’d brought him to Daily’s house. She was bringing Daily current on last night’s events. “By the way, thanks for not turning me out,” she said.
“Where else would you go?”
“Exactly my point. I’m a pariah. If I were a leper, I couldn’t be more aggressively avoided. Maybe I should tie a bell around my neck to warn people that I’m coming down the street.”
“That’s not very funny,” Daily said sourly.
“I didn’t think so either.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears. “Anyway, back to last night. Apparently Jayne Gaston suffered cardiac arrest yesterday afternoon at Dr. Allan’s Highpoint home. He attempted to revive her, but to no avail.”
For a time, Daily’s wheezing was the only sound in the small, cluttered room. Scattered about were the few purchases Barrie had made since the demolition of her home. Most of the clothing was still in shopping bags. Daily sat at the end of the cot, Barrie’s stocking feet resting on his thighs. He was giving her an uninspired foot massage.
“If the nurse died in the afternoon, why’d they wait till after dark to remove the body?” he asked.
“Dr. Allan had to arrange for Vanessa’s transport back to Washington. He wanted to shield her from the trauma of Mrs. Gaston’s death. A helicopter was dispatched to return her to the White House, but by then she’d learned about Mrs. Gaston. She was inconsolable. According to the doctor, the two had formed quite an attachment.
“Then, Mrs. Gaston’s next of kin, a son who lives here in the city, couldn’t be located immediately. Dr. Allan didn’t want to arrive at the hospital with her body before the son was notified.”
“But that happens all the time.”
“But not when the deceased is the First Lady’s private nurse. Dr. Allan was afraid the story would be leaked and get out over the airwaves before the son could be reached. He wasn’t too far off.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Daily muttered. “Seems a thin excuse, though, if you ask me.”
“Well, anyway, Dr. Allan waited to call the ambulance until he felt he couldn’t wait any longer. Gray and I happened to see the motorcade on the road. We followed it. When we saw the dead body…” She sighed.
“You drew a conclusion based on supposition instead of fact.”
“Rub it in, why don’t you?”
“I can’t believe you actually called Armbruster to the scene.”
“Believe it. Armbruster, and a WVUE cameraman whose timing was excellent. He showed up seconds after my dreadful mistake was discovered. He recorded for posterity my astonishment and Gray’s, Armbruster’s near-collapse, and the arrival of Ralph Gaston, Jr., the deceased’s son, who not only was dealt the blow of his mother’s death but was plunged into the tumultuous aftermath of my snafu.
“Some sadistic individual on the hospital staff notified the local press, which in turn… Well, you know the denouement. We created headlines. Thank God the story was killed before the networks got there. I absconded with the only videotape of the event.”
She paused to blot her eyes and blow her nose. She’d been weepy ever since the tongue-lashing she’d received from Senator Armbruster. Impervious to eavesdroppers, he’d lambasted her for making a goddamn fool of herself and, worse, of him. She ought to be horsewhipped for scaring him like that, he’d said, and warned that she was going to pay for her unforgivable, inexcusable, and unprofessional behavior. Having no doubt that he meant every word, Barrie had taken his warning to heart.
His threat hung over her like the glittering blade of the guillotine. She was doomed; she just didn’t know when or how the blade was going to fall. In the long run, she might not have to fear the senator’s reprisal: The suspense of not knowing what form it would take might be her undoing.
“Lord, Daily,” she groaned, laying her forearm across her eyes, “how could I have been so wrong? Everything led me to conclude that the President of the United States had committed one, possibly two, murders. Logic should have demanded that I rethink it.”
“Frankly, I don’t think logic is all it’s cracked up to be,” he said sympathetically. “Thinking back through history, name me one great mind who didn’t spit in the face of logic.”
“Stop trying to make me feel better. Let me wallow in this misery. I’ve earned it.”
