1 A Dose of Death

by Gin Jones

  "Not really."

  "Shall I take you home then?"

  Her new visiting nurse was probably still there, waiting out the two hours she'd been scheduled, too nervous to go tell her boss that their patient had escaped. "Not yet."

  Jack closed the door behind her and buckled himself into his seat. "So where are we going?"

  "I'm thinking." There had to be something Helen could do, something that might be helpful to the investigation into Melissa's murder, since no one else seemed to care about it. Tate had been right about the futility of speaking to the people who'd written references for Melissa, but maybe she could learn something from Melissa's colleagues. Starting with an explanation for why very few of them had come to her wake.

  "Do you know where the Wharton Nursing Home is?"

  Jack turned around to peer at her over the back of his seat. "What did that victim's advocate tell you? You don't need nursing home care. It's not a bad place, from what I've heard, but you'd hate it there."

  It would probably be better if Jack didn't know exactly what she was planning. That way, he couldn't get into trouble if the police decided she was interfering with their investigation. "I don't need that kind of medical care now, but lupus is unpredictable. I need to be prepared for possible severe flare-ups in the future."

  "You had me worried for a minute, there," Jack said as he turned toward the front again. He started the engine. "I'd forgotten about the waiting list to get into any decent nursing home, and this one's pretty small, so the wait is probably even longer than average. I don't even know if they'll let you tour the place without an appointment. It's just around the corner, though, so it won't take long to find out."

  The nursing home was an old, three-story stone building rising out of acres of manicured lawns. It was set back at least a thousand feet from the road, and the tree-shaded driveway divided to form a circle in front of the entrance. A discreet sign next to the over-sized front doors announced that it was the Wharton Nursing Home. Otherwise, Helen would have thought it was a private residence belonging to a millionaire, like one of the Newport "cottages." Probably had been a residence in the early 1900s, before it was converted to a nursing home.

  Inside, the entry area was equally impressive, with extra-high ceilings, marble floors and dark wood paneling. Only the smells gave away the building's real use; instead of wood polish, the place reeked of antiseptic, illness, and incontinence.

  A reception desk had been built to match the wood paneling. The young woman behind the counter was a sharp contrast with the early 1900s style of the room. She was in her late teens, and the epitome of contemporary style, from her short spiky hair to her mini-skirt and designer shoes.

  The receptionist welcomed Helen to the nursing home and pointed to a visitors' log. Helen dutifully signed her name and made a note of the time.

  "You didn't indicate who you're visiting." The young receptionist pointed to the blank spot. "We need to know, for security reasons."

  "I'm not here to see anyone in particular."

  "So you're here to see the facilities themselves? Let me get someone to guide you around the facilities and answer any questions you may have about our services."

  "That's not necessary," Helen said. "I'd really like to know more about the staff than the premises. It's the people who make or break a place."

  "Oh, we have the best people here. I've seen their certificates."

  "I'm sure they're all well qualified," Helen said, "but it's a matter of personalities. I'd like to meet a few of them for myself. See how we'd mesh. I knew one woman who used to work here. You might have known her. Melissa Shores."

  The receptionist nodded. "I remember her. Sort of. She left a few weeks after I started working here."

  "Perhaps I could talk to someone who knew her better."

  "I don't know if anyone did," the receptionist said. "She kept to herself. Worked all the time. Stayed here, even when her shift was over, so she could spend more time with the patients."

  "That sounds like Melissa." She wondered if the other patients had appreciated the dedication more than Helen had. "Are any of those patients still living here?"

  The receptionist stared at the ornate tin ceiling for a moment. "Betty and Josie are still here. Melissa came to visit them a few weeks ago, in fact."

  "Then let's say I'm here to visit Betty and Josie," Helen said, reaching for the log book. "Where will I find them?"

  The receptionist typed something into her computer. "They don't have anything scheduled right now. They're ambulatory, so they're probably in the activity area. They usually sit together in front of the fireplace. There's no fire in it, of course—smoke is far too irritating for our patients—but they like to pretend it's working. They sit next to it and make hats. Betty knits and Josie crochets."

  Helen followed the receptionist's directions down assorted corridors to a space that might once have been a ballroom, but was now filled with card tables and mismatched sofas. Staff members circulated among the residents, encouraging the solitary ones to engage in activities, and just generally interfering with what the patients actually wanted to do. If, as Helen had once read, there was an infinite variety of hells, each one designed to maximize the soul's misery, this place was her own hell. Before she agreed to live in a place like this, she'd move in with Laura and Howie and a hundred grand-nieces and grand-nephews.

  Just as the receptionist had predicted, two women were seated in wingback chairs in front of the cold fireplace. Judging by the piles of yarn in their laps, they had to be Betty and Josie. One woman was in her late seventies, still sturdy-looking, wearing an ankle-length black skirt topped by a black sweater sprinkled with brightly colored snips of yarn. Leaning against the feet of her chair was a tapestry bag, presumably filled with supplies, and in each lap was a pile of yarn. Her bag was made out of a tapestry fabric. The other woman was thinner and wore a pastel tunic over baggy jeans. She was a few years older, physically, but the neon green highlights in her blonde hair and the hot-pink Hello Kitty backpack holding her supplies suggested she was younger in spirit.

  Helen ignored the staff members converging on her, and went over to the fireplace, trying to look like the women there were long-time acquaintances.

  "What are you making?"

  "Chemo caps," the woman to the left of the fireplace said, holding up a multi-colored band hanging from a circular needle. She had to be Betty, the knitter. "They're for people who've lost their hair or the ability to keep warm, due to chemo treatments."

  "Want to join us?" the other woman, Josie, said. "We've got extra yarn and needles."

  "I don't know how to knit," Helen said. "Or crochet."

  "We could teach you," Betty said.

  That wasn't a bad idea, actually. If Helen was going to stay in Wharton for the rest of her life, she ought to know more people than her driver and a retired lawyer. These two women would be a good start. If the residents in the nursing home were as connected to the local political scene as Tate had suggested, then Betty and Josie could probably introduce Helen to everyone else in town.

  For all Helen knew, making hats might even turn out to be a hobby she could enjoy as much as Tate enjoyed his woodworking. "Maybe I can come back for a lesson some other time. I can't stay long today."

  Josie nudged Betty. "He's here again."

  Betty glanced toward the doorway, and Helen turned to see Geoff Loring standing there.

  Helen turned a nearby wingback chair so it would hide her, unless he looked too closely, and dropped into the faded upholstery. "Does he have family staying here?"

  "A cousin with MS. But today he's here for work," Josie said. "Comes out here every Wednesday, like clockwork. Does some fluff piece on one of the residents."

  Betty laughed. "If he only knew…"

  "Knew what?"

  "Hello, ladies." Geoff stopped behind Helen. "Mind if I join you?"

  "Have you figured out that we're the cool kids yet?" Josie said. "Are you going
to interview us finally?"

  "Not this week," Geoff said. "I'm saving you for a slow news cycle."

  "Then you're here about Melissa's murder?" Helen said.

  He shook his head. "That's old news. I'm on the trail of something bigger than that."

  "Something bigger than murder?" Helen said. "Something to do with the nursing home?"

  "I can't say," he said, although the smug look on his face did all the talking for him.

  "I know," Josie said excitedly. "You solved the mystery of the missing teddy bear."

  "What missing teddy bear?" he asked.

  Betty and Josie shared another glance that suggested Geoff didn't have a clue about anything that went on at the nursing home.

  "Never mind," Betty said. "We were just telling Helen about the nice little stories you do on the residents here. She's going to join our knitting circle."

  "Maybe you'll convince her to let me interview her next."

  "I'm not a nursing home resident," Helen said. "Just wanted to meet some of the people who knew Melissa. She used to work here, you know."

  "Most of her career, I think," Geoff said. "I'd been meaning to interview her, but I waited too long. A lot of the city leaders and their family members have ended up here, and Melissa probably worked with most of them. She must have had some great experiences with them, and they'd have made great stories."

  "Melissa wouldn't have told you anything," Josie said, jerking a length of yarn from its skein. "She wasn't a gossip."

  That was true enough, Helen thought. Melissa had talked non-stop, but it hadn't been gossip. She'd never mentioned anyone by name, except for the day they'd been sorting pictures from the governor's mansion, and Melissa had been able to identify most of the politicians in them, some of whom Helen couldn't even remember. Until now, she hadn't stopped to think that Melissa could have known even more than just the names and job descriptions when it came to local public figures.

  "Melissa would have talked to me." Geoff smiled at Helen. "Everyone does, eventually."

  It sounded a bit like a threat, Helen thought, not that there was anything he could do to her if she refused to talk to him, on or off the record. He wasn't really interested in her life, anyway. He was after bigger fish, just as he'd been hoping to pump Melissa for information about her better-known patients. Melissa wouldn't have told him anything, but her patients might not have known that. One of them might have had a reason to take drastic measures to keep her quiet.

  Helen asked, "Did anyone know you were planning to interview Melissa?"

  "I don't share my story leads with anyone," he said. "When are you going to sit down with me for an interview?"

  Never. But he wouldn't accept that. Better to give him an excuse he had to accept. "It's too soon after Melissa's death."

  "I understand." Geoff patted her on the shoulder. "What happened to Melissa would have upset even a seasoned reporter like me. When you're up to it, though, call me, and we'll talk."

  Not without my lawyer present. Helen shrugged his hand off her shoulder. When had everyone decided they could touch her without her permission? She'd have to ask Tate later about the definition of assault. Not that she could do much about Geoff's and Pierce's annoying little familiarities. The local judge wouldn't be any more sympathetic to criminal charges against them than she'd been to the request for a restraining order against Melissa.

  Anxious to leave, now that it was obvious Geoff's presence would keep the women from saying anything useful, Helen stood. She nodded at Betty and Josie. "I'm sorry I can't stay and learn to make hats. I've got someone waiting for me outside."

  "Stop by any time," Josie said. "We've always got spare supplies for anyone who wants to join in."

  "I'll do that." It would have to be a time when Geoff wasn't around, so Helen could find out what the women knew that the reporter had missed. It might not have anything to do with Melissa, but she didn't have any better leads.

  "I'll walk out with you," Geoff said.

  "No need," Helen said. "You've got a much better chance at getting a scoop if you stay here and learn to knit."

  * * *

  Geoff walked Helen out of the nursing home anyway, holding doors and offering the assistance she hadn't requested and didn't need or appreciate. If he thought that holding a few doors would convince her to give him an exclusive interview, he had another think coming.

  As they approached the luxury car, Jack looked up from his video game. He glared at Geoff, who either didn't notice or didn't see any reason why he should care about the driver's disapproval. Geoff was still talking about how much she'd enjoy reading the story he wrote about her when Jack slammed the Town Car door behind Helen, cutting off the reporter's wheedling.

  Jack waited until they reached the end of the long driveway before asking, "Where to?"

  It was safe to go back to the cottage now, she thought. Rebecca should be long gone, and, thanks to Geoff's untimely interference, she didn't have any leads to follow. "Home, please."

  "Why is that reporter bothering you?" Jack said as they headed toward the center of the town.

  "It's his job."

  As they drove past Tate's office, Helen noticed that the garage doors were closed, suggesting he'd closed up shop early. She wondered if he'd found that retirement wasn't quite what he'd expected it to be, and even his beloved woodworking wasn't enough to keep him occupied, or if he'd given in to the demands of his clients and gone into the law office itself.

  "But why does Geoff keep harassing you?" Jack said. "Shouldn't he be writing about Melissa's murder?"

  "If he were a real investigative reporter, he would be looking into the murder," Helen said. "But he doesn't seem to have the right skills for the job. I've known some great reporters, and they question everything, and then mull over everything they're told, deciding for themselves what makes sense, what doesn't. Geoff Loring doesn't do anything more than write up basic summaries of what people tell him, like a first-grader writing a book report. It's what he did with the information the police gave him on Melissa's murder. It's what he does with the human interest stories on the nursing home residents. And it's what he wants to do with a story about me—summarize whatever I say, and hope that people find it interesting, just because I'm the governor's ex-wife."

  "You probably got that a lot before you moved here," Jack said. "I'll make sure to keep an eye out for him the future, so we can avoid him."

  "Don't worry about it," Helen said. "I can take care of myself."

  "How did he know you were at the nursing home?"

  Helen was startled by the idea that Geoff might have been following her. She'd encountered a couple minor stalkers in her days in the governor's mansion, but she hadn't expected that sort of thing now that she was retired. Then she realized that Jack was giving Geoff far more credit than he deserved.

  "I'm sure he wasn't following me. It's a small town, after all. Nothing more than a coincidence, running into me there. Apparently he visits there at least once a week."

  "He shouldn't be bothering the people who live there, either."

  "I don't think they mind. It breaks up the monotony of their days," she said. "There's no harm in it. It's not like he's doing any real investigating. He seems to think there's a big story just out of reach somewhere, but he'd be better off if he actually dug into some of the stuff he's already written about, and got to the bottom of it."

  "Like Melissa's death?"

  "That would be a good start," Helen said. "The burglaries, too. They've been going on for so long that someone should have had some idea of who was doing them before Melissa was killed. I've read all the newspaper accounts, and no one seems to know anything at all about the perpetrator."

  "What's to know?" Jack said. "Someone's stealing stuff. Happens all the time. I had a limo passenger two weeks ago who stole the towel that was wrapped around the champagne bottle. I mean, the guy could afford a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne, and he's too cheap to buy his own kit
chen towels."

  "That's different," Helen said. "Your passenger didn't break into someone's house to steal anything. It didn't require any planning or skills. Just see something and grab it."

  "Maybe the other burglaries happened the same way," Jack said. "Spur of the moment sort of things."

  "They're certainly random enough for that to be true," Helen said. "Random enough that you'd expect the thefts to be unconnected, but the police are sure they're all connected, because of the oddity of what was taken and not taken. Beyond that, no one's been able to see any clear pattern in the timing or motivation or geography. The victim advocate said that most of them happened in May, June and December, but that doesn't narrow things down too much. I thought there was supposed to be more of a pattern to crimes."

  "You can't believe everything you read." Jack turned the Town Car onto her street. "Especially in the local paper."

  "That's certainly true." Geoff Loring wouldn't recognize a pattern if she drew it on his notepad. And the police hadn't been taking the burglaries seriously until now. They hadn't collected any fingerprints or checked for other forensic evidence at those crime scenes, so there was nothing to compare to the items confiscated from the vicinity of where Melissa was killed. "Until the burglar strikes again, there really isn't much that anyone can do to identify him."

  "If he knows what's good for him," Jack said, "he's lying low until the killer's caught."

  Jack ought to know how a criminal would think, what with all the family members who'd hired Tate to represent them. "What were your cousins arrested for, anyway?"

  "You don't think they'd try to rob you, do you?" Jack braked more sharply than usual at the last stop sign before her driveway. "I wouldn't let them do that to someone nice like you."

  "They might not have bothered to ask for your permission."

  "They're not burglars," Jack said firmly, easing off the brake and rolling the Town Car forward. "Their arrests were always for assault. They'd get drunk and then start fistfights. They've got good jobs, and they don't have any reason to steal from anyone, least of all from someone who'd never done anything bad to them. They work hard and they play hard, that's all."