Pushing Murder by Eleanor Boylan Page A

incriminating in it? Why risk murder and mugging rather than face the mere railings of an angry woman? I presumed Janet’s letter contained only that—mere railings. Surely he’d have a good chance of bluffing his way through with the charm that had always served him so well. Sal adored him. Mightn’t she forgive all? Believe in his new leaf? Why had he chosen such a desperate path?
    It was puzzling that an ineffectual tirade had had the power to put me in this wheelchair.

7
    The elevator door opened on my floor to disclose Henry, Tina, and my ten-year-old grandson, Hen.
    â€œWhere the hell have you been?” My indignant son helped pull the wheelchair out. I said, “Don’t swear in front of your child,” and Hen said, “Can I push?”
    I was whisked into my room, fearfully looking about for D.N. No sign of her—off duty, I hoped. “How long have you people been here?” I asked.
    â€œIt must be all of ten minutes.” Tina winked at me as she and Kit helped me into bed. Hen immediately sat in the wheelchair and was hauled out of it by his father. “Henry was sure you’d been abducted.”
    â€œYou didn’t make inquiries, I hope.” The thought of a general alarm and of the dismay of Sister Agnes equally appalled me.
    â€œAnother five minutes, and I would have.” Henry stared at Dan’s arm. “My God, did he get to you?”
    â€œHe got to me, and he got to the letter.” Dan looked the picture of desolation.
    â€œDan did fine,” I said. “He forced Dwight Dunlop into the open. Everybody sit. Hen, dear, go into the next room and ask if you may borrow a chair.”
    â€œI’ll use this one.” Sadd sank into the wheelchair. “I’m practically a candidate for it.”
    â€œI still want to know where you’ve been,” Henry insisted.
    â€œAt a wine-tasting party.” Sadd pulled the bottle and glasses from the bag. “Very old stock. Eleventh Street Vineyards. Care for some?”
    Henry said come on, what was this all about, and I suddenly felt a little light-headed. I said, “What time is it? I think I’d better eat something.”
    Everybody asked what I wanted, and I tried to think what I’d had in the course of that long, long day. A piece of French toast and two glasses of wine.
    Sadd said, “It’s seven o’clock, and I’m absolutely famished. As for Dan and Kit—”
    â€œâ€”as for Dan and Kit”—I looked at them remorsefully—“you are both to go straight down to the cafeteria and have supper. When you’ve finished, bring me anything.”
    â€œBring me everything,” said Sadd, reaching for his wallet.
    â€œIt goes on our bill.”
    Kit and Dan were at the door as Hen returned dragging a chair. He said, “Can I write on your cast?”
    â€œ May you write,” said Sadd.
    â€œSure,” said Dan.
    â€œWhen my dad broke his arm skiing, people wrote some neat things.”
    Kit said, “Come down to the cafeteria with us and write a neat thing.”
    â€œCan I get some ice cream?”
    â€œMay,” Sadd said wearily.
    â€œHen, we’ve eaten, remember?” said Tina.
    â€œNo sweat.” Kit put her arm around him. “I have one like you.”
    â€œWhich reminds me, Kit,” I said anxiously, “what’s your situation at home?”
    â€œIt’s okay. My mother lives with us.”
    They left, and Henry said, “For the third time—”
    â€œOf course, dear, I’m sorry.” I lay back, fighting exhaustion. “Sadd, you tell them.”
    I listened with admiration as Sadd expertly summarized the events from Dwight Dunlop’s phone call on. Where I tend to digress, Sadd is concise; I dramatize, he is matter-of-fact; I bewail, he is philosophical.
    When he’d finished, Henry said at once, “Of course, Dan’s right, Mom. You’re not