Sandrine's Case (9780802193520) by Thomas H. Cook

weeks.”
    â€œDid he give you the name of this painkiller?”
    â€œDemerol.”
    â€œAnd did he suggest to you how Sandrine Madison had administered this drug on the night in question?”
    â€œHe said that he’d picked up the glass beside the bed and it had smelled of vodka,” Mr. Forsythe informed the jury. “He said that his wife had probably taken the pills with this vodka.”
    â€œDid he say that he was with his wife when she took her own life?”
    â€œHe said that he was not.”
    Mr. Forsythe went on to reveal additional facts regarding our conversation that morning, none of which seemed particularly notable until he reached the point where, standing at the door, as he was about to leave the house, he’d turned back to me and said, “I noticed a guidebook.”
    â€œA guidebook?” I asked.
    â€œIt was tucked just beneath the sheet,” Mr. Forsythe said. “I noticed it when I examined the body more closely.”
    I had not examined Sandrine’s body more closely, and so I hadn’t noticed the book at all and told him so.
    â€œWhat kind of guidebook?” I asked.
    â€œA travel guide,” Forsythe said. “The title was something like Around the Mediterranean .”
    â€œThe Mediterranean,” I said softly. “She was probably thinking of the trip we took to the Mediterranean when we were young. It was the travel guide we used on that trip. It was twenty years old, but she never threw it away, I guess.”
    â€œSo it was nostalgia, you think?” Mr. Forsythe asked. “The reason she was reading it?”
    â€œI suppose so, yes,” I said. “It was a good time for us. When we took that trip.” I paused, then before I could stop myself, added, “We were happier then.”
    Something in Forsythe’s eyes darkened. “I see,” he said. “So she hadn’t been planning a trip?”
    â€œNo.”
    I was trying to recall the exact words of this exchange when Mr. Singleton suddenly turned, walked over to his desk, picked up our old travel guide, the one Alabrandi had later seized, and handed it to Mr. Forsythe.
    â€œIs this the book you saw in the bedroom at 237 Crescent Road?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd the title is what?”
    Mr. Forsythe shifted the book to get a better light. “ Around the Countries of the Mediterranean, a Travel Guide, ” he read.
    â€œAll right, did you later have occasion to take a look at this travel guide?”
    He had.
    â€œAnd did you notice if any page had been marked.”
    â€œThe corner of one page had been turned down, yes.”
    â€œAnd what did this turned-down page mark?”
    â€œA town in France,” the coroner answered.
    â€œWhich town?”
    â€œThe town was named Albi.”
    â€œThank you,” Mr. Singleton said. “I have no further questions.”
    Morty gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he rose from his chair. His hand was big, beefy, and I felt somewhat like a little boy whose father has just confidently signaled him that, despite the unexpected and steadily building odds against it, he will win the game.
    â€œForgive me, Mr. Forsythe, but would you state again how long you have been the Coburn County coroner?” Morty asked.
    â€œThirty-two years.”
    â€œAnd if you don’t mind, would you tell the court how old you are?”
    â€œI’m seventy-one.”
    â€œAnd just for the record, you did order that Mrs. Madison’s body be autopsied, correct?”
    â€œYes, I did.”
    â€œAnd that would be entirely routine, wouldn’t it? It was enough that Mr. Madison had mentioned suicide as a possible cause of death?”
    â€œYes, that would have been enough.”
    â€œIn fact, Mrs. Madison’s age alone might also have been enough for you to order an autopsy, yes?”
    â€œYes,” Forsythe answered. “Unless her death had been