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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?”
    “From time to time. At the office, it was usually me. At home, it was usually Sidra.”
    “Sidra?”
    “His daughter-in-law. She’s a nurse.”
    “How about Alan Bennet? Why him? I mean, isn’t he a vice president or something?”
    “He’s also a close friend of the family. And he and Wendell traveled a lot together on business. Alan always did it when they traveled.”
    “How about any other nurses? I understand Wendell had a bunch of medical problems. Was there no regular nurse on staff?”
    “Again, Sidra handled his dialysis and everything. Wendell did have some night aides a few months back, but none lately.”
    “I see.”
    I could hear the slur in her voice growing more pronounced and, feeling guilty, I let her go, telling her I hoped she felt better once she got some rest.
    I put away the phone, thinking of Gwen’s list. If I was going to continue with my current theory, then there was a good chance the killer was either a member of the family, a member of the household staff, Alan, or Gwen.
    I thought about the Smythe family, knowing that Tom would have a fit if he knew I was looking in their direction first. He was close to them and probably would feel the killer couldn’t possibly be any of them. But I didn’t know the family at all, which was to my advantage at this point. A good detective never assumes anything—and in a case like this one, the family is the most logical place to start, statistically speaking. Marion’s grief at her husband’s passing had seemed genuine, but even that wasn’t always a clear sign of innocence. As I headed to the house I resolved to keep an open mind, hoping I would have a chance to meet and get to know the entire family a little better.
    When I was nearly there, I stopped at a large strip mall to pick up some toiletries and makeup, a bathing suit, and a few office supplies. I didn’t feel like spending time trying on any clothes and just grabbed some things that looked like they would fit, hoping for the best.
    By the time I reached the house, it was early afternoon, and