Later that night, they discovered that the imposing canopied bed in their room had one unexpected flaw. It squeaked mercilessly whenever they moved. This discovery brought on fits of uncontrolled laughter but did nothing to diminish their enjoyment. If anything, it gave Cassi another wonderful memory of the weekend.

Cassi’s reverie was broken by the jerk with which Thomas brought his Porsche to a stop in front of their garage. He reached across and pressed the automatic door button inside the glove compartment.

The garage, also weathered shingle, was completely separate from the house. There was an apartment on the second floor, originally designed for servants, where Thomas’s widowed mother, Patricia Kingsley, resided. She’d moved from the main house when Cassi and Thomas married.

The Porsche thundered into the garage, then with a final roar, died. Cassi got out, careful that the door did not hit her own Chevy Nova that was parked alongside. Thomas loved his car as much as his own right arm. She also closed the door without too much force. She was accustomed to slamming car doors, something which had been a necessity with the old family Ford sedan. On several occasions Thomas had become livid when she’d reverted back to her old habit despite his lectures on the careful engineering of the Porsche.

“It’s about time,” said Harriet Summer, their housekeeper, when Thomas and Cassi entered the hall. To emphasize her displeasure, she made sure they saw her check her wristwatch. Harriet Summer had worked for the Kingsleys since before Thomas was born. She was very much the old family retainer and had to be treated as such. Cassi had learned that very quickly.

“Dinner will be on the table in a half hour. If you’re not there, it will get cold. Tonight’s my favorite TV show, Thomas, so I’m leaving here at eight-thirty come what may.”

“We’ll be down,” said Thomas, removing his coat.

“And hang up that coat,” said Harriet. “I’m not going to be picking them up all the time.”

Thomas did as he was told.

“What about Mother?” asked Thomas.

“She’s as she always is,” said Harriet. “She lunched well and she’s expecting a call for dinner, so get cracking.”

As Thomas and Cassi started upstairs, Cassi marveled at the change in her husband. At the hospital he was so aggressive and commanding, but the minute Harriet or his mother asked him to do something, he obeyed.

At the top of the stairs, Thomas turned into his second-floor study, saying that he’d see Cassi in a few moments. He didn’t wait for her to reply. Cassi wasn’t surprised, and she continued down the hall toward their bedroom. She knew he liked his study, which was something of a mirror image of his office at the hospital except that it had a wonderful view of the picturesque garage and the salt marshes beyond. The problem was that over the last few months Thomas had begun to spend more and more time there, occasionally even sleeping on the couch. Cassi had not commented, knowing that he was troubled with insomnia, but as the number of nights he spent away from her increased, it had begun to distress her more and more.

The master bedroom was at the very end of the hall, on the northeast side of the house. It had French doors giving out onto a balcony that had a commanding view of the lawn down to the sea. Next to the bedroom was a morning room facing east. On nice days the sun would stream through the windows. Between the two rooms was the master bath.

The only part of the house Cassi had redecorated was the bedroom suite. She’d salvaged and repaired the white wicker porch furniture that she had found ignominiously abandoned in the garage. She had chosen bright chintz fabrics for matching comforter, drapes, and seat cushions. The bedroom had been papered with a Victorian-style vertical print; the morning room painted a pale yellow. The combination was bright and cheerful, in sharp contrast with the dark and heavy tones of the rest of the house.

Cassi had essentially taken over the morning room as her study since Thomas had shown no inclination to share it. She’d found an old country-style desk in the basement, which she’d painted white, and had bought several simple pine bookcases, which she’d painted to match. One of the bookcases had a second role; it served to conceal a small refrigerator that contained Cassi’s medicines.

After testing her urine again, Cassi went to the refrigerator and removed a package of regular insulin and one of Lente insulin. Using the same syringe, she drew up a half cc of the U100 regular and then one-tenth cc of the U100 Lente. Knowing she had injected herself in her left thigh that morning, she chose a site on her right thigh. The whole procedure took less than five minutes.

After a quick shower, Cassi knocked on the door to Thomas’s study. When she entered she sensed that Thomas was more relaxed. He’d just finished buttoning a fresh shirt and ended up with more buttons than buttonholes when he got to the top.

“Some surgeon you must be,” teased Cassi, rapidly fixing the problem. “I met a medical resident whom you impressed last night. I’m glad he didn’t see you buttoning your shirt.” Cassi was eager for light conversation.

“Who was that?” asked Thomas.

“You helped him on a resuscitation attempt.”

“It wasn’t a very impressive effort. The man died.”

“I know,” said Cassi. “I watched the autopsy this morning.”

Thomas sat down on the sectional sofa, pulling on his loafers.

“Why on earth were you watching an autopsy?” he asked.

“Because it was a post-cardiac-surgical case where the cause of death was unclear.”

Thomas stood up and began to brush his wet hair. “Did the entire department of psychiatry go up to watch this event?” asked Thomas.

“Of course not,” said Cassi. “Robert called me and…”

Cassi paused. It wasn’t until she’d mentioned Robert’s name that she remembered the talk they had had in the car. Fortunately Thomas kept brushing his hair.

“He said that he thought there was another case for the SSD series. You remember. I’ve spoken to you about that before.”

“Sudden surgical death,” said Thomas as if he were reciting a lesson in school.

“And he was right,” said Cassi. “There was no obvious cause of death. The man had had a bypass operation by Dr. Ballantine…”

“I’d say that was a sufficient cause,” interrupted Thomas. “The old man probably put a suture right through the Bundle of His. It knocks out the heart’s conduction system, and it’s happened before.”

“Was that your impression when you tried to resuscitate him?” asked Cassi.

“It occurred to me,” said Thomas. “I assumed it was some sort of acute arrhythmia.”

“The nurses reported the patient was very cyanotic when they found him,” she said.

Thomas finished his hair and indicated he was ready for dinner. He gestured toward the hall while he spoke: “That doesn’t surprise me. The patient probably aspirated.”

Cassi preceded Thomas out into the hall. From the autopsy she already knew the patient’s lungs and bronchial tubes had been clear, meaning he had not aspirated anything. But she didn’t tell that to Thomas. His tone suggested he’d had enough of the subject.

“I would have thought that beginning a new residency would keep you busy,” said Thomas, starting down the stairs. “Even a residency in psychiatry. Aren’t they giving you enough work to do?”

“More than enough,” said Cassi. “I’ve never felt quite so incompetent. But Robert and I have been following this SSD series for a year. We were eventually going to publish our findings. Then, of course, I left pathology, but I truly think Robert is onto something. Anyway, when he called me this morning I took the time to go up and watch.”

“Surgery is serious business,” said Thomas. “Particularly cardiac surgery.”

“I know,” said Cassi, “but Robert has seventeen of these cases now, maybe eighteen if this new one checks out. Ten years ago SSD only seemed to occur in patients who were in coma. But lately there’s been a change. Patients who have come through surgery with flying colors are seemingly dying postop without cause.”