Burgundy and Bodies

by Sandra Woffington

  Max took a seat. “I’m investigating the death of Anne Martin, and I just have a question or two.”

  “Of course. How can we help?” asked Mrs. Grimes. Despite the “we,” Mr. Rodriguez, a short-statured man with a dark mustache, waited patiently. Max surmised he was either there as a second pair of ears, a witness, in case of trouble, or was told to speak only if spoken to.

  “As you know, we found Anne Martin dead this morning. Were there any problems here at the hospital?”

  Mrs. Grimes piped a response. “Yes, detective, but please keep it under wraps. We are conducting a full internal investigation of drug diversion. In fact, as soon as Mr. Rodriquez notified me of the problem, the board approved hiring an outside drug diversion expert to identify points of access and to recommend strategies for mitigation.”

  “What kind of drugs have been stolen?”

  “The kind that would sell on the street—opioids, Fentanyl, oxy, midazolam.”

  “How far back has the problem existed?” asked Max.

  Mrs. Grimes folded her hands. “Mr. Rodriguez became aware of it a few months ago.”

  “Has anyone in particular been identified as a suspect?”

  “No. Unfortunately, there are many shifts and many hands that have access. The amounts are small but consistent. They add up to more than personal use.” Mrs. Grimes nodded, giving permission for Mr. Rodriquez to speak up.

  “Cases of drug diversion are in the news constantly. The DEA tracks pharmacies, even those in hospitals, doctors’ prescriptions, and manufacturers. There was a recent case in one hospital of a nurse diverting drugs and taking needles she used on patients for her own use. In a larger case, two nurses stole excessive amounts of drugs—in that case, the DEA fined the hospital a couple million. Large or small, we will not tolerate drug diversion.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Rodriquez,” said Max. “Is Dr. Grant on staff at this hospital?”

  Mrs. Grimes’ eyes shot to the table, like his mentioning the name had sent a dagger right through her. “Thank you, Mr. Rodriquez. I’ll take it from here. You may resume your duties.”

  Before he left, Mr. Rodriquez added, “For the record, Anne Martin was a great nurse. I can’t imagine she had anything to do with stealing those drugs.”

  Mrs. Grimes waited for him to close the door. “I presume you mean Dr. Kenneth Grant?”

  Max nodded.

  “He’s not on staff anywhere. He no longer has a medical license. He lost it after a second DUI. The second time around, besides alcohol, he also had cocaine in his system. The medical board frowned on a second offense.”

  “You sound like you personally remember it. You were here then?”

  “Kenneth was a charming man. Still is. I see him racing around town in his little red Porsche. We were both so young then and climbing up in the world. I dated him for a while. You know how it is when you’re young. Can’t keep apart. But Kenneth had a drinking problem. I’d saved his bacon a couple of times, put him in a quiet room and an empty bed where he could sleep it off. He had his first DUI just after his thirtieth birthday. I don’t know how he made it through med school. I knew he was a train wreck, so I broke up with him. By the end of the week, he was dating another nurse. His second DUI was a year later. I guess he figured the cocaine would offset the alcohol. Instead, the combination—”

  Max finished her sentence. “Makes for an alert drunk. I’ve seen it firsthand. We learned that phrase in the police academy.”

  “With the second DUI, the medical board revoked Kenneth’s license to practice. I think he started working for a pharmaceutical company. I’m not sure. I’ve lost track.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Grimes. I appreciate your giving me that information. It might help.” Max rose and turned to leave, but she called after him. Max turned back.

  “Detective King. Kenneth Grant, in the old days at least, well, he also had a temper. Somehow, I doubt that’s changed.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You don’t think Anne’s death had something to do the diverted drugs, do you?”

  “At this point, Mrs. Grimes, I know very little. I’m just following the bread crumbs.”

  As Max rode down the elevator and crossed the lobby, he wondered if Anne had dealt drugs on the black market? It could easily place her in danger. But could she have become that desperate? Or had Grant pushed her into it? Or Shane, the pharmacist?

  He also wondered if Deon could be posing as a good Samaritan? He hadn’t mentioned the drug diversion. Maybe Anne had caught him stealing drugs, and he needed to fix his problem—and what better way than to kill Anne and pin the drug thefts on the dead nurse? Or maybe the administration had managed to keep the investigation under wraps.

  7

  Max located Dr. Grant by phone and asked to meet with him. Grant had been making his last call of the day, so he invited Max to meet him at his house.

  Max pushed the intercom and the electric wrought-iron gate swung open. He drove up the hill on a private road and parked before a modern glass, stainless steel, and granite behemoth. The architecture told Max a lot about the man who lived inside: he was cold with hard edges.

  Max rang the bell. He could see clear through the house from the glassed-in front entry through to a wall of windows in the living room that faced rolling golden hills and the valley below. A maid with a Spanish accent answered the door and led him through the great room where he walked across a travertine floor. A white quartz fireplace reached up to the second story beside a catwalk with stainless steel railings. The decor was gray and black and white and acrylic with splashes of red.

  Panoramic vanishing glass doors stood open to blend the inside and outside into one space. Max followed the maid outside, where an infinity pool cascaded, seemingly, into the valley below. Gray chaise lounge recliners and white tables and chairs faced the valley.

  Grant sat under an umbrella, sipping iced tea with a lemon wedge and a sprig of mint. A clear acrylic tray containing a pitcher of tea, lemon wedges, mint sprigs, a white honey pot, and an empty glass, presumably for Max, sat beside him. Grant didn’t get up.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Max took a seat.

  Grant stared straight ahead into the valley and puffed on his cigarette. “I want Anne’s murderer caught too. What do you need?”

  Max wondered if the refusal to meet him eye-to-eye meant asserting his dominance or attempting to avoid giving himself away.

  “Did you quarrel with Anne outside at Eugene’s?”

  “Anne needed a strong arm sometimes. She made a lot of mistakes. I was trying to help her.”

  “And she resisted your ‘guidance’?” Max felt tension rise in Dr. Grant. He still refused to meet Max’s gaze. The longer he avoided Max, the more suspicious Max became. It didn’t take much to push this guy’s buttons.

  “Anne was her own worst enemy. A tragedy waiting to—”

  “How about your mistakes, Dr. Grant?”

  At this, Grant turned. He bore his hazel eyes into Max’s cold blue ones, inhaled his cigarette, and blew the smoke at Max. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean the two DUIs that cost you your medical license.”

  At this, Grant relaxed. “Absolutely! Spot on, Detective King. Except that it was the best screw-up of my life. Probably even saved my life. Yes, I lost my license, because I am a drug and alcohol addict. It’s never in the past. It lurks. It lives inside and waits for one moment of weakness. I was young and arrogant, a real ass-hole. Screwed women. Abused cocaine and booze. I lived in the fast lane, and it all came crashing down. The first time, I hired a lawyer, took classes, polished my record, and the board reinstated me. But I thought I just needed to control it, to hide better. That’s how an addict talks to himself. A second time was inexcusable.”

  “And…”

  “I go at things full tilt. Always have. I mowed over people to get what I wanted. It was easy!” He sucked a long drag from his cigarette. “But
I had to mow over myself. I got help, and I faced my issues head on. No excuses. I’ve been sober nearly ten years—until last night.”

  “Did you go to a bar?”

  “I don’t drink and drive anymore. And I don’t keep alcohol in the house. I stopped at a liquor store on the way home and drank until I passed out. Today, I start all over.” Grant raised his tea and gulped it down.

  “So other than a clerk, no witnesses? Where do you work Dr. Grant?”

  “I’m a sales rep for Kinsey Pharmaceuticals.”

  “You handle drugs and you’re an addict.”

  “I don’t handle any samples that could be abused. I have those shipped directly to my doctors.” He took a large gulp of tea and put out his cigarette. He shook his head. “Anne’s addiction was gambling. But she didn’t want to stop. She lacked discipline. She always thought—as many do—that she could control the beast. Tame it. Well, you can’t. I loved Anne, and yes, I was tough with her. I had to be or…or I’d lose her, but I lost her anyway.”

  “You fought with her outside Eugene’s? What about?”

  “The usual. Money. I’d helped her before, and I made sure she always paid me back—every penny. Last night, she was giddy. Flirting and joking. She shot those greedy green eyes at Eugene. I like Eugene. I didn’t want Anne to mess with him. He’s been through enough. That’s what I told her outside. Anne blew through her inheritance—God, how I tried to stop her! And still, she owes the casino money. You don’t give an addict drugs. And you don’t give a gambling addict money. She begged me to pay off the casino. She promised she’d stop gambling and get help. I wanted to believe her. But…I said no. She had to stay poor and make those payments, or she’d get another line of credit. Maybe if I’d have said yes…”

  “You’d have taken her back?”

  Grant looked out at the valley and contemplated. “She’s always been my greatest weakness. In recovery, you learn that addicts aren’t supposed to partner with other addicts—too dangerous. But we understand each other like no one else can understand us. Anne had a sweet side, a loving side, a good side. So do I. We had happy moments, fun times. If we were out, she protected my sobriety. I’m surrounded by wineries, but I can’t drink. And Anne needed to stop gambling.”

  Max listened carefully. It wasn’t so much about hearing the answer to his question as it was about hearing Kenneth Grant’s perspective—understanding how this man saw the world and how he saw Anne. “Did you know that drugs had gone missing from the hospital?”

  Grant jumped up from his chair, ripped off his sunglasses, and threw them over the hillside with a grunt. That didn’t seem to appease him, so he picked up the chair he’d been sitting on and hurled it over the side too. But that, too, did not seem to appease him. He paced. “My God, Anne! How could you?”

  “We don’t know that she did it.”

  “We don’t know that she didn’t. She couldn’t stop.”

  “Did you kill her, doctor?”

  Grant raged. “Get out! Get out before I send you after the chair! Get out of my house!”

  “Looks like you have one other beast to control, doctor—your anger. One more question and I’ll leave.”

  Grant bore his eyes into Max. His nostrils flared. He grit his teeth.

  Max rose to his feet and glared back, knowing his question would set Grant off even more. “Anne had sex last night. I gather it wasn’t with you?”

  Dr. Grant grabbed another chair and hurled it over the embankment. He let out a guttural cry, like a man who had lost more than he could bear and couldn’t stand to lose any more. He sank to his knees. His shoulders heaved. His head dropped into his cupped hands.

  Max let himself out. He knew that kind of rage. It could lead to murder—a sudden, instantaneous swing of impulse that sent a rock smashing against a skull. Had the trigger been Anne’s attention to Eugene? Or had Grant simply put Anne in a box so small she had no other way out but to steal from the hospital? Did Grant hate Anne for being weak? Or did he hate himself for murdering her when she failed to follow his prescription?

  Cynthia answered the door, somewhat surprised. “Shane? Come in.”

  “I need to see Eugene.”

  “We just finished dinner. Have a seat. I’ll bring you boys some dessert.” In no time, Cynthia handed them the remaining strawberry pie, and she settled into the floral sofa across from Shane, who seemed to be in more pain than usual.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Eugene.

  “I’m not sure. I should have mentioned this to the police when they came to see me, but I didn’t. I thought I’d get your opinion first.” Shane winced and adjusted his body to find a pain-free position.

  “What is it?” Eugene balanced the pie plate, careful to avoid getting crumbs on his long shorts or cotton shirt as he took a bite.

  Shane scratched his curly head. “Anne confided in me a while back that she had borrowed money from a loan-shark, some drug-dealer guy called A-gamer. I didn’t say anything, because it all got cleared up. I kinda forgot about it until now.”

  Eugene stopped eating. “When was this? I didn’t know anything about it. Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like Anne at all.”

  “It was some months back I think. Anne hadn’t been herself for some time, but I thought it was her break-up with Grant that had her gloomy.”

  “I remember. I also thought it was from the break-up.”

  “I joked around with her. Told her she looked like she’d seen The Ghost of Christmas Past, and she says, ‘All of the ghosts, Shane, have come home to haunt me.’” Then she was all smiles again. I asked how she got rid of the ghosts. That’s when she told me about the loan from this A-gamer. She said the chief had cleared it up. I think she slipped, because as soon as she said it, she begged me to keep it to myself.”

  Cynthia sniped, “Anne was careless and foolish! She used men.”

  Eugene’s face flushed with disappointment. “Cynthia, no matter what Anne did, she didn’t deserve to be brutally murdered.”

  “I didn’t say that, Papa. How did the chief fix her problem, Shane?”

  “Don’t know. She just said the chief had sorted it out.” Shane shoved another bite of pie into his mouth.

  “Did Kenneth know about this?” asked Eugene before taking another bite.

  “I don’t think so,” said Shane. “I don’t really know. Anne seemed fidgety, even sorry she told me. She promised the chief she wouldn’t say a word.” Shane picked up the letter on the coffee table and read it.

  “That’s my ‘Dear John’ letter from Mayleen.” Eugene set down his empty plate. “Short and to the point.”

  “Shane, hand it to me, and I’ll get rid of the rotten memory once and for all,” said Cynthia.

  “No way! Men keep their Dear John letters,” said Shane. “But tell you what, Eugene. I’ll keep it for you. Out of sight, out of mind. Right, Cynthia?” He stuffed the note in his pocket. “Only keep happy memories around, Eugene. And if you need this back to remind you how lucky you are, I’ll bring it over.”

  “Toss it, Shane.” Eugene walked his plate to the kitchen, picking up Shane’s empty plate on the way. “I still can’t believe Anne is dead.”

  “I say we need to turn this day around. Marry me, Cynthia. Take care of me like you take care of your father, and bad memories like this one,” Shane patted his pocket, “will disappear. You wouldn’t write me a note like this, would you?”

  “I should say not!” Eugene exhorted. “Please say yes, Cynthia. He’s asked you so many times. Nothing would make me happier. I’m not going to live forever.”

  “I’ll never leave you, Papa,” reminded Cynthia, finishing her last bite of pie. “You need me.”

  “Then Shane can move in here.” Eugene sat next to Cynthia and took her hand in his. “We’ve plenty of room. This will be yours one day. Oh, do consider it, Cynthia. Say yes if you love the man. I may have missed the boat, but you shouldn’t.”

  Shane added, “And I’ll give up
my job at the twenty-four hour pharmacy and help with your family business. Just say yes.”

  Cynthia’s expression warmed. “Then, yes! It’s about time. I do love you, Shane. It will be all the merrier to have two men to care for, although, I must admit, my father is enough to handle.”

  Shane tried to stand up, but his back stopped him. “I’m a happy man! I hoped you’d say yes, one day.”

  Eugened wrapped his arms around Cynthia and kissed her on the forhead. “I’m so happy, Cynthia.”

  Cynthia headed to the kitchen. She returned with three uncapped beers and passed them around. “It may not be champagne, but this deserves a toast.”

  “After this morning’s news, toasting to a love match makes perfect sense,” said Eugene. “A toast to you both.” He tipped back the beer and drank a long draught.

  “Maybe later.” Shane slowly rose to his feet, giving his back time to adjust. “I have to go. I have the night shift at the pharmacy. Thought I’d take a nap first.”

  “Well, that’s hours away,” said Cynthia. “What kind of a man am I marrying? I should change my mind.”

  “Cynthia, darlin’, if a toast is what you want—you’ll have it. A deal’s a deal.” Shane drank down the entire beer. “So do you think I should tell the police, Eugene? About what Anne told me? I don’t even know if it’s true.”

  Eugene pondered quietly. “I suppose you should. It will either lead somewhere or not.”

  Shane tried to kiss Cynthia, but she blushed red and turned her face away, pointing to her cheek. “Not in front of Papa, Shane.”

  Eugene protested, “Oh, kiss him Cynthia. Enjoy the love that has eluded me all these years.”

  Shane set a cordial kiss on Cynthia’s cheek. “Your shyness is one thing I’ve always loved about you.”

  “You love my cooking,” said Cynthia, patting Shane on the belly.

  “I do love that too.” Shane kissed her on the forehead. “You set the date. I’ll start packing.”