“What do you mean bought it?” Marge asked.

Heather sighed. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Dr. Decameron and hope for the best.”

“Hope for the best?” Oliver asked.

“Reggie is a jerk. Try getting any answers out of him. I don’t know why Dr. Sparks puts up with him.” Heather wiped her eyes again. “Actually, I do know why. The doctor was the best boss I’ve ever had. The most honest, sincere, nicest, gentlemanly…not that he didn’t have his moments. But once you understood his genius…” She exploded into a new wave of sobs.

“How long had you worked for him, Ms. Manley?” Oliver asked.

“Five years,” she cried.

“You were close to him?” asked Marge.

“I loved him!” she wailed.

Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. Heather caught it. “Not in the way you think. I loved him as in ‘hopelessly in love’ with him. He never laid a finger on me.”

Maybe not a finger, Oliver thought.

Heather said, “He was a gentleman in every way. Completely devoted to his wife and family. He wouldn’t ever think of touching another woman, much less have an affair. He was deeply religious.”

Again, Marge and Oliver looked at each other. Oliver said, “You sound like you’re pretty sure about that.”

“I’m positive!”

“You know, Heather, if you’re trying to lead us down the wrong path—”

“I’m not—”

“I’m not saying you are,” Oliver said. “All I’m saying is that if something was kinky with Sparks, it’s going to come out.”

“Nothing…and I mean nothing…was ever kinky with Dr. Sparks! The only thing he ever got into trouble for was being too good.”

“How’s that?” Marge asked.

“Like I said, he was deeply religious. He had tremendous faith in God and didn’t understand those who didn’t—”

“Oh please, Heather, spare them the Jesus on the cross routine.” A forty-plus man stuck out his hand to Marge. “Reginald Decameron. This is just horrible! It’s already made the news! I heard it coming over. Someone want to tell me what’s going on?”

Marge regarded the doctor. Slender, well-coiffed, well-dressed. Thin features, piercing dark eyes. Self-assured to the point of haughtiness. He wore white shirt, gray slacks, and a blue cashmere blazer. Pocket handkerchief in the blazer, silk hand-painted jacquard tie around his neck. She took the proffered hand. “Thank you for coming down.”

“How could I not come down.” He turned to Heather. “Where are Dr. Berger and Dr. Fulton?”

“They can’t make it—”

“What?” Decameron was outraged. “Azor is…murdered, and they can’t see fit to talk to the police?”

“Dr. Fulton couldn’t get a baby-sitter, Dr. Decameron. Her husband wasn’t home when I called.”

“And what was Myron’s excuse?” Decameron raised his brow. “Bad hair day?”

Heather glared at him. “How can you be so awful at a time like this?”