“Not when I was there.” Fulton rubbed her eyes. “My husband and I used to joke they were a Norman Rockwell poster from a bygone era. Especially when you compared them to us—” She stopped talking.

“Compared to you, how?” Marge pressed.

“My personal life isn’t relevant.”

As if on cue, a rumbling motor belched loudly then suddenly stopped, leaving in its wake an uneasy silence. The door opened and a man stumbled in—long-limbed and skinny! A marionette of bones wearing a leather vest, torn jeans, and scarred black leather boots. His facial features were hidden behind several days of beard growth, unruly blond curls of hair hovering around his shoulder blades. He was sweating Scotch…could smell it as soon as he came flying past the doorpost. He looked at his wife, looked at the company with bleary eyes.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Fulton’s face had become red, a portrait of anger. “I’m going back to the hospital, Drew. An emergency.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Drew looked confused. “Huh? What time is it?”

“A quarter past one.”

“Why’re you goin’ to the hospital?”

“Because Dr. Sparks has been murdered—”

“What?”

“The hospital needs help, Drew. I have to go. Excuse me.” Covering her face, Fulton flew out of the room.

“Mur…” Drew was dazed, slumped in the pine rocker and looked at Oliver. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“God…that’s…” Drew scratched his cheek, rubbed watery blue eyes floating in seas of pink. “Think she’ll lose her job?”

Marge stared at him. “I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

Oliver walked over to the door and opened it. Anything to air the place out. Maybe the jerk would take the hint and leave. He didn’t. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“You’re the police?”

“Yes.”

“God, this is serious stuff, huh.”

Marge asked, “What’s your full name, sir?”

“My name?”

“Yes, your name.”

“Drew McFadden. I’m not under suspicion or anything.”

Marge and Oliver traded looks. Oliver walked over to him, leaned against the bay, looked down on Drew. “Why do you think you’re under suspicion?”

Drew looked up, puzzled, had no answer. “Is Liz under suspicion?”

“Should she be?” Marge asked.

“I don’t think so.” Drew laughed. “But I don’t know much.”

A good insight, Marge thought. “She and her boss were close?”

“Real close. I often—” He stopped talking. His wife had returned. She had changed into a white shirt, black pants, and a white lab coat, ID tag with her name and picture resting on its lapel. To the police, she said, “If you need any further information, I’ll be at the hospital.” She glanced at her husband. “Henry’s bottle is in the fridge. In case I don’t get back, Marta is due in at seven.”

“I’ll take care of it, Liz.”

“Right.”

“That’s too bad about Dr. Sparks, Liz. I’m sorry.”