Viper's Nest

by Shirley Raye Redmond

  She was certainly right, but her time might be better spent elsewhere. He wasn’t convinced he should spend time interviewing former employees unless they’d worked directly with his mother. He was supposed to be writing a book about Dorothea Dix. But this was becoming more of a quest regarding his mother’s death and an investigation into scandals that had supposedly taken place at the old hospital.

  His new, mixed-up feelings about Wren had begun to put everything in a whole new light too. Such a relationship would only complicate his life.

  “You don’t think Grizzard’s death is a coincidence, do you?” she asked, lowering her voice so that her daughter wouldn’t hear. “The old man’s timely death might well be related to the shooting, and maybe even my mysterious note.”

  “I think there may be a possibility that one or more of these incidents are tied together. If that’s the case, what we’re doing could be even more dangerous than we first imagined.”

  She gave a smile of gratitude. “Thank you for being honest with me, Allan.”

  Wren’s smiling expression reminded him of the day he’d first met her. She’d arrived fifteen minutes early, looking hopeful, a little nervous, and quite stunning in a green sweater dress that set off her light titian hair. She’d appeared competent and very feminine. He knew after speaking with her for only ten minutes he intended to offer her the job. She was bright, determined and desperate, admitting she was a widow with a child to support. She expressed a hope that he’d be willing to allow her to work a flexible schedule.

  Allan had been more than willing. She was soft-spoken and cheerful in a quiet, pleasant way. He’d started her off at a higher hourly rate than he usually paid an assistant, knowing Wren needed the money and betting she’d be worth every penny. As his previous books continued to earn handsome royalties, he could afford to be generous. Over the months she’d worked for him, he’d come to appreciate her efficiency and reliability. From time to time, she even brought home-baked goodies to the office—her chocolate peanut butter cookies were his favorite.

  With a strong possibility of her being in mortal danger, Allan felt more than a little protective. If her husband’s death was related to what they’d discovered in the asylum’s netherworld, then it might be directly linked to what had happened to his mother too. It was up to him to get to the bottom of it.

  “First thing in the morning, we should go see Maude Gentry.” She started the car. “See you tomorrow.”

  Pippi flapped her small hand in a silly farewell and grinned.

  He couldn’t help smiling back. The kid was cute as a button. It was not the time to argue. Pippi wanted her supper, and Wren needed a long hot shower. For that matter, so did he. Sniffing the sleeve of his soot-smeared corduroy jacket, he still smelled smoke. The jacket would have to be dry-cleaned.

  The next day, Wren showed up promptly at nine o’clock.

  Allan offered to drive.

  “Do you think Peter’s accident was not really an accident?” Wren asked suddenly, her mind obviously working out the myriad details. “I know I’ve asked you before, but I wondered if you’d thought about it any more.”

  Allan didn’t want to consider the alternative—that someone would murder a pastor and make it look like an accident. If Peter Bergschneider had been killed, then there was a possibility the rifle shot might have been meant to kill Wren. The notion disturbed him more than Allan cared to admit. “I don’t know, Wren. You already know the police re-examined the case and found no evidence that it was anything other than an accident.”

  “But the note and the rifle shot, what about those?” she asked. “Mere coincidence?”

  “If someone had really wanted to kill you, or me, or even Gorse, he would have taken a second shot. The shooter had plenty of time and opportunity.”

  “That makes sense, I suppose,” Wren said, unconvinced. “Do you think Pippi and I are in any danger? Is that why you want me to visit my parents?”

  “Wren, I don’t know what to think. For all we know, I was the intended target. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to kill me. Maybe the target was Gorse. And yesterday’s fire could have been set to scare or injure Judith. We just happened to be along for the misadventure. My guess is the note you received has nothing to do with anything that’s happened in the past week. But if you have any doubts, you and Pippi should leave town. You can even take the research work with you. We can touch base by email and by phone when we need to.”

  She bowed her head and closed her eyes. Was she praying again? A lot of good that would do. Peter Bergschneider had been a man of prayer. It hadn’t kept him from dying.

  Wren opened her eyes and stared straight ahead. “I’ll think about it,” she told him.

  She’d said that before.

  ~*~

  Maude Gentry proved to be a surprisingly tall, though stoop-shouldered, woman in her seventies with grizzled gray hair and thick, dark glasses. She appeared suspicious when she opened her door.

  Allan poured on the charm, introducing himself and Wren with a friendly flare. As usual, this approach, combined with his masculine good looks, thawed the older woman’s defenses. She stepped back, inviting them both inside.

  Wren tried not to smile. Allan had that effect on women. He was hard to resist—even for a woman Maude Gentry’s age.

  Another older woman, this one chubby, with a halo of white hair that reminded Wren of a dandelion gone to seed, sat at the dining room table working on a jigsaw puzzle. “My friend, Genevieve Sweet,” Maude told them. She indicated that they should take a seat around the table. “Now what can I do for you, Professor?”

  “Do call me Allan,” he insisted with another of his devastating smiles. It had the desired effect. Both women appeared to melt, returning his smile with broad smiles of their own.

  Wren lowered her gaze, careful not to place her hands, elbows, or notepad anywhere on the table for fear she might knock one of the sorted puzzle pieces onto the floor.

  He turned down Mrs. Gentry’s offer of coffee, complimented her on her collection of teapots in the china hutch in the corner of the room, and then got right to the point. “I’m working on a book about Dorothea Dix and the old mental hospital here in town. We’d like to ask a few questions about your late uncle, Fred Grizzard, if you don’t mind.”

  “And to offer our condolences,” Wren hastily put in.

  Maude pursed her thin lips, nodding. “Poor Uncle Freddy. We lost him a long time ago, in a manner of speaking. He was never quite himself after the war—that’s the Second World War,” she added for clarification. “I was born the year he enlisted—that was 1942, and I was just a little slip of a thing when he came back. Everyone said he wasn’t right in the head when he returned. That’s why he was sent to the state mental hospital. I went out there one time with my father to visit him. And once my parents brought him home for the long Thanksgiving weekend.” She paused, heaving a sigh. “Uncle Freddy had horrible nightmares, crying out in his sleep. My mother was always a little afraid he might murder us all in our beds, so my father never brought him home again.” Her wrinkled face grew sad and sober.

  “Do you know what job he performed during his time at the asylum?” Allan asked. “We were told that all the patients had job assignments—some worked in the laundry, others in the gardens or the kitchens.”

  “Can’t say for sure,” Maude replied. “My parents didn’t discuss that sort of thing in front of me, generally. But when I was older, I liked to listen when they thought I wasn’t around.” She grinned. “But I was always fascinated by anything to do with Uncle Freddy, even though my school chums sometimes teased me about having an idiot in the family.”

  “Oh, Maude, no, not an idiot,” Genevieve protested.

  “That’s what they called him—an idiot. But Uncle Freddy was good with his hands, handy with tools, my dad always said. At one time, he was assigned to the workshop, building coffins, mounting shelves, and repairing things that needed fixing in the wards. My
father got upset when he found out Uncle Freddy had burial detail too. People were always dying out there from one thing or another—pneumonia was a big problem. Influenza too. That sort of thing just spread like wildfire through the wards, they say. My dad thought Uncle Freddy shouldn’t have to dig graves, not after what he’d been through.”

  Wren exchanged a quick glance with Allan. She hadn’t written anything down yet. Maybe Bea had been right about the corpses that plagued Freddy’s dreams—soldiers’ corpses. Or was it the dead bodies he’d help bury in the asylum cemetery that had haunted his dreams?

  “Do you know if he had any particular friends at the asylum during his time there?” Allan went on.

  “None that I know of,” Maude replied.

  “Did you ever hear him or your parents mention a woman named Leah Partner?”

  Maude shook her head. Then her face brightened. “He did talk about some woman named Dolly. It was during the time he came for Thanksgiving. My mother had a nice box of chocolates and Uncle Freddy asked if he could have it to take to Dolly. I don’t know if she was a patient or an employee, but I could tell my uncle had a soft spot for her, just by the way he said her name.” She paused, thinking back. “He also mentioned someone called The Brain. He was afraid of The Brain—whoever he was.” Maude nodded emphatically. “He said he didn’t dare do anything to make The Brain angry.”

  “Do you think this Brain was an orderly or some other hospital employee, or do you think it was another patient?” Wren asked.

  “I don’t know,” the woman admitted, raising a gnarly hand in a helpless gesture. “Why exactly do you want to talk to me about Uncle Freddy?” she asked, turning to Allan. “I don’t see how it can help you with your book. Is it because he was a patient at the hospital, or because you think he might have had something to do with that poor little skeleton found in the cookie tin?”

  Allan’s face grew tense. “Do you know anything about that?” he asked slowly.

  “How could I? I’m only wondering, that’s all. It was in the newspapers. Can’t help thinking of the poor little thing and how it got down there in the first place.”

  “Professor, you should talk to my neighbor, Jean Beatty,” Genevieve said, looking up from the puzzle. “She used to work in the kitchens there a long time ago. The early morning shift. She said things went on out there that shouldn’t have—like people stealing from the food supplies. Her husband worked there, too, for a while. He was an orderly. They might know something that would help with your book.” She nodded at Allan in an encouraging way.

  “What else did your friend Jean tell you?” he pressed, leaning forward.

  “Jean didn’t talk about it much. She was afraid of losing her job, don’t you know? But she’s retired now and the old place is going to be demolished any day, so I reckon she and Alvis would tell you what they remember.”

  Wren scribbled down the address information. Speaking with former employees might lead to more information about Dix and, perhaps, Allan’s mother. Many must still be alive and living in town, able to answer questions and share memories.

  As they took their leave, Allan shook hands with both women, promising them each a free copy of the book when it was released.

  “Did you want to visit Mr. and Mrs. Beatty now?” Wren asked as they made their way back to the car.

  “Not this morning. Do you think Gorse might know this character Grizzard had referred to as The Brain? He worked in the hospital as an orderly once. He mentioned that on our tour. Then again, maybe he’s The Brain. If Gorse could make his way up the administrative ladder to become comptroller, he must be intelligent or well-connected,” Allan ventured.

  “I’ve wondered about that too,” Wren admitted. “When I asked him if he remembered Freddy Grizzard, he said he didn’t recognize the name. I didn’t believe him.”

  “Hmm, that intuition at work again,” Allan said with a half smile. “We’ll have to look into the matter further, but today I want you to go through all the files Dr. Leadill sent over, page by page, making note of any entry that has anything to do with my mother. I’m guessing Judith will call or stop by, wanting to see the files as well. I told her she could, but she can look at them under your supervision.”

  Wren nodded. “I know you’re eager to learn all you can about your mother’s time as a patient in the hospital. I understand that. But you’re paying for my time and as this has nothing to do with the Dix book, I think maybe I should work on the files in the evening on my own time. I don’t mind doing that, Allan.”

  “I’d mind asking you to do it,” Allan objected. “Besides, something may turn up in Leadill’s files that I can actually use in the Dix biography. So, I intend to pay you to go through them.”

  “All right. It’s important, I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve been praying that God will show us the way through this perplexing series of events. It’s like one mystery heaped on top of another.”

  Allan gave her a slight frown. “Look, Wren, don’t waste your time praying about this. If there is a God, He doesn’t care about what concerns us.”

  “He does care, more than you realize.”

  “Then where was He when my mother was vulnerable and desperate? Why didn’t He listen to the prayers of a frightened, confused little boy?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “He was right there in the middle of it all, Allan. Perhaps you have the misguided notion that God is like a genie who grants wishes. That you’re somehow entitled to a happy, carefree and comfortable life. That’s not what God does. That’s not who He is. He loves you, more than your parents ever could. He can redeem you. I can’t help wondering if there’s more to all this than you’ve told me,” she said, not wanting to pry, but feeling curious all the same.

  He said nothing for a long while.

  The silence was becoming awkward.

  “As I told you, no one in the family would talk to me about my mother’s condition—why she was admitted to the hospital in the first place. Over the years, I’ve found myself worrying that my mother’s mental illness might have been,” he paused before finally saying, “hereditary.”

  Wren’s stomach gave a sickening lurch, and she could almost feel the color draining from her cheeks.

  13

  Too overcome to say anything, Wren sat silently while Allan pulled into the parking space nearest to the sidewalk leading to the history building. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak first. With a rush of compassion, she prayed. Heavenly Father, give me the right words. “I’m sure your mother’s illness was not hereditary,” she finally told him. She was convinced it was true.

  “How do you know that? What makes you so sure?” he asked, his blue eyes searching her face.

  “You told me that most women admitted to the hospital were suffering from illnesses we now treat on an outpatient basis,” Wren reminded him. “Many of these so-called mental illnesses were temporary disorders, like postpartum depression. It would make sense that your mother suffered with something like that. No one else in your mother’s family has ever suffered from mental illness and needed to be hospitalized, right? I feel certain had your mother been seriously ill with something like schizophrenia, your father would have told you when you got older.” She reached over to give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “You’re a very nice lady, Wren Bergschneider. Has anyone ever told you so before?”

  Wren laughed, embarrassed. “Yes, actually, but it’s always nice to hear it again.” She tried to ignore the other emotions she was experiencing—ones she hadn’t felt since before Peter died. She needed to keep her thoughts focused on the research.

  The rest of her morning flew by.

  Allan had lunch with a colleague and stayed busy with classes throughout the afternoon.

  Wren, having brought a sandwich and apple slices from home, ate her lunch at her desk while she sorted through Dr. Leadill’s files. Expecting Judith to pop in at any moment, Wren wanted to have all the
files sorted before the reporter arrived. As Dr. Leadill had promised, there were a couple of files containing minimal information regarding Leah Partner’s mental condition. Some of the handwriting was difficult to decipher—typical doctor scribble.

  Two important facts stood out: each caused Wren’s heart to lurch with hope. One notation indicated that Allan’s mother had suffered a miscarriage, which precipitated an ongoing bout of tearful depression. This, apparently, was the reason her husband wanted her to be hospitalized. The second piece of important information Wren gleaned involved a virulent strain of influenza, which had swept through the hospital six months after Mrs. Partner had been admitted. So many patients became ill that the infirmary was filled to overflowing. Dozens of women were sent to the annex to recuperate—one of them was Leah Partner. Wren guessed this explained the forgotten file card bearing Leah’s name, which Allan had found in the annex before they’d had to flee from the fire.

  Praising God she had good news to share with her anxious boss, Wren made a pot of coffee to celebrate.

  Judith arrived a short while later, her manner surly and crisp.

  Wren seated the reporter behind her own desk, neatly scooping away the files that pertained to Allan’s mother, and poured Judith a cup of coffee.

  Judith handed Wren a thumb drive. “Turnabout is fair play,” she said. “Here are my files I told Professor P. he could look at in exchange for letting me look at the ones he received from Dr. Leadill.” She indicated the assorted piles of papers. “Did you find anything here that might be useful for the Dix biography?”

  “No,” Wren answered truthfully.