My thoughts, of course, went to coworkers, family members, and household employees. If anyone that Wendell Smythe knew and trusted could’ve waltzed in there, offered to give him his insulin shot, and then waltzed back out, then all it would’ve taken was an extra-big dose of insulin, and he was history. Wendell was used to getting his shots from other people; he could’ve easily been tricked into sitting still for this one.

The next step, then, was for me to try to find out who in Wendell’s world usually gave him his shots. If he had a needle phobia and hated giving the shots to himself, then he had probably trained quite a few people to do it for him so that he would never be caught in a bind. I wondered who was on that list and what would be the quickest way to find out their names.

In a moment of inspiration, I pulled out my notes and dialed the home number of Wendell’s secretary, Gwen Harding. We had “bonded” a bit this morning, having gone through this crisis together, and my hope was that I could finesse a conversation with her to get the information I sought. Unfortunately, a man answered the phone, and when I asked to speak with Gwen, he told me she was indisposed.

“Who is it?” I heard her ask softly in the background, and I realized that she was probably overcome with emotion and exhaustion.

The morning had been extremely difficult for her. I gave my name, and after a moment’s hesitation, she came onto the line.

“Callie?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled. “What’s going on?”

“I got your number from the office,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind. How are you holding up, Gwen? Are you doing okay?”

“How sweet of you to ask,” she said. “I was just lying down.” She went on to tell me that her husband had come home from work to be with her, and that her doctor had prescribed a sedative.

“I just took one a few minutes ago,” she said, and I could hear the slight slur in her voice. “I’m going to take a little rest now.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “Before you go, I wonder if you could tell me something.”

“What, dear?”

“Would you be able to provide a list of names of the people who regularly gave Wendell Smythe his insulin injections?”

“Again?” she moaned. “I just told this to the police.”

I took that as a positive sign—the police and I were on the same track.

“What I told them,” Gwen continued, “was Wendell’s family, the household staff, me, and Alan Bennet. That’s it. Why does everyone need to know, anyway?”

“No telling,” I said, thinking, technically, that wasn’t a lie; I did know, I just wasn’t telling. “Are you sure that’s everyone?”

“Positive,” said Gwen. “We were all trained at the house, at the same time. We all learned together.”

“And all of you gave Wendell his shots?”