Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

  Charlie reached inside and smoothed Rowan’s cowlick with shaking fingers. “I know. But I wanted to pass the store on to them.”

  I sighed. “You will. For now, let me worry about it. Rowan needs you more than the store does.”

  Charlie nodded, dashed away the tears building on her lashes. “You’d do that?”

  I squeezed her hand. “Just because I don’t want to run the store doesn’t mean I don’t know how. I’ll handle Stapleton and Sons. You handle Rowan.”

  “Frankie,” she called as I was leaving, “what’s your legacy?”

  I pondered for a moment and thought about Clem. About the patients I’d treated over the last twelve years. The lives I’d saved and the lives I hadn’t, and the knowledge that, every single time, I’d done all I could. It was satisfying, no doubt, and in a way, my work rippled out into the world when my patients returned to their lives, their families, their own work.

  But at the end of the day, was it enough? I’d picked up and left Chicago at a moment’s notice, but my absence hadn’t created a vacuum. Someone else had taken my shifts, and the ER carried on. There was nobody in my apartment waiting for me to come home, not even a houseplant or a goldfish. The freedom I’d worked so hard to achieve suddenly seemed a little hollow.

  My job was my life’s work, yes—but maybe it wasn’t supposed to be my whole life.

  “Still figuring that out,” I said. And I would. Right after I found Clem’s killer.

  SEVENTEEN

  No matter what Noah thought, I had a suspect with a clear motive. Now I needed to show Jimmy had had the means—and the opportunity—to kill Clem.

  After I left Charlie and Rowan, I headed to the hospital pharmacy, tucked into a back corner of the basement. Inconvenient, but also out of sight from prying eyes. I’d moved Clem’s medication into one of my mom’s old pillboxes—the plastic kind with a separate compartment for each day of the week. The last thing I needed was for someone at the hospital to catch me with prescriptions I wasn’t authorized to have, and anonymity seemed like the best preventative.

  I strolled up to the dispensing window and peered around, but nobody was in sight. I rang the bell and waited, pasting on a sunny smile.

  A moment later, the pharmacist appeared: a dour-looking man wearing thick, black-framed glasses and a spotless lab coat. His salt-and-pepper hair was ruthlessly gelled into place. “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” I said, checking his nametag, “Nestor. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about my dad’s medication.”

  “Oh?” He adjusted his glasses. “Was the prescription filled here?”

  “I’m not sure.” I slid the pillbox across the counter. “He was admitted for chest pain, and they wanted to know what heart medications he was taking, but this is all I could find at his house. I was hoping you could tell me what they are.”

  His eyes flicked over the box, then back to me. “The nurses should be able to help. I’m in the middle of preparing some solutions that require my full attention.”

  Of course the nurses could have helped. I could have looked up the drugs online too, if I’d used the computer at the store. But the discrepancy between Clem’s medications and his blood work were the closest thing I had to proof. Independent verification would make it harder for Noah to dismiss me.

  “If the nurses got it wrong, it could be really terrible. You’re an expert, and this is kind of a life-and-death situation. You’re really the only one I trust to help.” Crocodile tears were not in my skill set, but I widened my eyes and gave him a tremulous smile.

  If Nestor the pharmacist actually believed me, I was going to consider heading over to the casinos and trying my hand at poker.

  “Well,” he said grudgingly, smoothing down his lab coat. “I suppose it wouldn’t take too long.”

  He held out his hand for the box and I passed it over, gushing my thanks.

  He disappeared into the back and came back a moment later with a stainless steel tray and a pair of tweezers.

  “Let’s see what we have,” he mused, opening the first compartment. Using the tweezers, he removed each pill and placed it in a neat line. He did the same with the remaining days, placing each new pill directly underneath its duplicate, nudging them delicately until they were symmetrical, with precisely the same amount of space between them.

  “Hmm.” He reached for a light, as well as a magnifier. “Heart problems, you say?”

  I nodded. “Blood pressure, cholesterol, the usual.”

  “Standard prescriptions for heart problems are warfarin and benazepril,” he said. He consulted his computer, no doubt calling up the same drug manual I used at work. I waited, holding onto the counter to keep from drumming my fingers.

  “But these aren’t those,” he said after a moment. “This dosage of warfarin, for example, should be a flat-faced, tan oval.”

  “Isn’t that tan?” I leaned in.

  “Not quite. And I’d say it’s more of a circle than an oval.” He used the tweezers to flip each pill over, bending so close his nose nearly brushed the steel pan. “The indicator code has been worn away.”

  I’d noticed that, too. The numbers and letters etched into tablet’s surface were barely legible. “Do you think someone filed them off?”

  He glanced at me, frowning. “What would possess someone to do such a thing?”

  “So it’s accidental?”

  “It could have happened when he transferred the pills to this container. Or it might been mishandled at the dispensary.” His gaze sharpened. “He didn’t fill that prescription here, did he?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Some chain pharmacy.”

  He sniffed. “That’s something, anyway. If one of my clerks was this sloppy, I’d fire them immediately.”

  “You’re the head pharmacist? I had a feeling. You’re really good at this.”

  He preened. “This is Thrombinase. One of Pharmagen’s, I think. It’s used to increase platelets in the bloodstream, which promotes clotting. No cardiologist would ever prescribe this for a patient with heart disease. Perhaps you misunderstood his condition?”

  “It seems that way,” I said. “What about this one?”

  He bent over the table, inspecting the pinkish-brown triangle. “This looks very similar to benazepril, but . . .” He turned back to the computer. “Yes. It’s actually an over-the-counter vitamin K supplement. Harmless for most people, but it’s certainly wouldn’t help someone with a heart condition.”

  He straightened and began transferring the pills back into the container, his movements precise and meticulous. “I’m afraid your father hasn’t been telling you the truth about his health. You should let the nurses know what he’s really taking, so they can treat him accordingly.”

  “Oh, I will definitely let people know,” I said grimly.

  He passed me the box and tugged at his shirtcuffs. “If that’s all . . .”

  “Yes, thank you.” Then I paused, a memory surfacing. “Actually—one other question. Do you stock Apracetim?”

  “We don’t keep it here regularly,” he said. “But we can order it from the manufacturer. Does your father have epilepsy as well?”

  “No, no,” I assured him. “My friend needs it for her son, and she wants to comparison shop.”

  “There’s not much point. It’s new enough that it will be expensive regardless of where she gets it.”

  “I’ll make sure to tell her. Thank you so much for your time.”

  I made my way back upstairs, gripping the pillbox so tightly my knuckles turned white.

  Laura wasn’t wrong about Clem, but neither was Marcus. Clem had been taking medication . . . just not the right ones. Without the warfarin, he would have been far more likely to throw a clot, causing a heart attack. And both Thrombinase and vitamin K would have made him even more prone to clotting.

  Someone had tampered with his medication—someone with access to the cabin and knowledge of Clem’s routine. But they’d al
so need a working knowledge of pharmacology, and I couldn’t quite picture Jimmy having that kind of expertise.

  The rest of it fit so neatly—Jimmy might not be welcome at Clem’s cabin, but he’d certainly know where it was. I’d already seen that Clem wasn’t the type to lock his door. Since Jimmy wasn’t working, he would have had plenty of time to wait until Clem had left for a job, then let himself in and swap the medications. It explained how he would have heard about Clem’s death so quickly—he’d been waiting for it. When the initial heart attack hadn’t killed him, he’d gone to the hospital to finish the job.

  It wasn’t without risk, but Laura had said Jimmy was a gambler. He’d bet on his own weaselly brand of intelligence and the hospital’s desperation to avoid bad press, and now he thought he’d won.

  He hadn’t counted on a wild card: me.

  EIGHTEEN

  Evidence stowed in my bag, I made my way to Strack’s office, my outrage growing with every step. Jimmy might have triggered Clem’s heart attack by swapping out his medication, but something else had stopped his lungs. I needed to find out what it was, and the only way to do that was to order an autopsy—assuming Clem hadn’t already been embalmed.

  The secretary glanced up, startled, as I strode in.

  “Clem Jensen,” I said. “Has his body been released to the family?”

  She blinked. “I don’t believe so, but you’d have to check with Mr. Strack.”

  I jerked a thumb at Strack’s door. “Is he in?”

  “He’s in a meeting.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, striding past her. “This won’t take long.”

  Strack, Hardy, and Ashley looked up as I barged into the sleek glass-and-chrome office, all of them sporting identical expressions of dismay.

  “Miss Stapleton,” Strack said, standing as I approached. “We’re in the middle of a meeting.”

  “Right, right. The Cardiodyne trial. Gotta make Stillwater Gen look nice and shiny for your buyer.”

  He straightened his tie and tried to look offended. “Cardiodyne holds great promise, and Stillwater General is proud to be at the forefront . . .”

  “Save it for the staff newsletter,” I snapped. Ashley looked wounded, like she was a puppy I’d recently kicked. “Has Clem Jensen’s body been released to the family?”

  He stiffened. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”

  “That’s a no, then.” A wave of relief overtook me. No doubt, the legal department was unwilling to release Clem’s body while they were facing a lawsuit. There was still time.

  “Have you ordered an autopsy yet?” I hadn’t seen it in the chart, but I wanted to be sure.

  Hardy’s brow lowered. Next to him, Ashley seemed to shrink back, as if she wanted to disappear from the conversation completely.

  “Autopsies are very stressful for the family,” Strack hedged. “It’s not as if the cause of death is in question.”

  “I disagree,” I said. “You don’t know what killed Clem Jensen. How about you, Dr. Hardy? Any theories?”

  “My report was completed and passed along to all the necessary parties,” he said coolly. “If I’m required to make further statements, whether for the lawsuit or your licensing hearing, I’ll be happy to do so. But not before then. Certainly not to you.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “You told Laura Madigan her father’s death was unavoidable. That’s a statement. Are you saying you lied to the patient’s next of kin?”

  “You’re a nurse,” Hardy said with a shrug. “You’ve never lied to a patient’s family in order to ease their pain?”

  “No, actually. I haven’t. Interesting that you don’t seem to think Laura Madigan deserves the truth. I’ll make sure to tell her lawyer.”

  Not that Laura had a lawyer, of course, but even the hint of a threat had Strack turning a mottled shade of puce.

  “We’re done here, Miss Stapleton,” Strack said, taking me by the elbow. “Any further communication should occur through our attorneys.”

  “You don’t want to do an autopsy,” I said, jerking away. “You’d rather pay off Jimmy Madigan than let this drag out because it might interfere with a potential sale. How do you think the people in this town are going to respond when they find out you care more about lining your own pocket than finding out the truth behind Clem Jensen’s death? What if it wasn’t a heart attack? What if it was malpractice, or medical error, or murder? Word gets out and you can kiss any shot at a sale good-bye.”

  “That sounds very much like slander,” Hardy pointed out. “People who spread those kinds of rumors could be sued for defamation.”

  “Not if it’s true,” I said. “I have to think that the FDA is going to think twice about approving a drug when one of the trial’s organizers is under investigation, too.”

  “Our test results speak for themselves,” Ashley said, her voice colder than the Illinois River in February. So much for female solidarity.

  “Shifting blame won’t help you, Miss Stapleton,” said Strack. His left eyelid was twitching, I noted with satisfaction. “You engaged in professional misconduct by treating Mr. Jensen without our authorization. I’m confident that the state board will agree, regardless of anything an autopsy might find.”

  “You’d better be sure,” I told him. “You’d better figure out exactly why and how Clem Jensen died, because we both know I’m not responsible. And if you try to bring me up on misconduct charges just to cover your own ass? I’ll prove it and make Jimmy Madigan’s lawsuit look like pocket change.”

  NINETEEN

  “What’s all this?” Garima asked when she found me in the diner that evening. After going toe-to-toe with Strack, I’d snuggled Rowan while Charlie napped, covered an alarmingly slow shift at the hardware store, and helped Riley with her homework. Then I’d escaped the house, preferring to work on Clem’s papers away from the prying eyes of my family.

  Now I sat in the cracked red vinyl booth, surrounded by stacks of invoices and order forms.

  “Clem’s business,” I said. “I still can’t figure out how he was paying for his grandson’s medication. His cash flow’s been pretty steady over the last few years, but CJ’s Apracetim bills should have totaled more than ten thousand dollars. Where was he getting that kind of money?”

  “Someone could have given him a bonus,” Garima suggested, slipping into the seat across from me. She’d changed from scrubs into a maroon silk blouse and navy skirt, casually elegant even in the diner.

  “People give bonuses to employees they see regularly—housekeepers, or hairdressers. Not the guy who power-washed their deck one time.”

  “He doesn’t have any bigger customers?” She perused the menu.

  “A few. He works for a motel out on the interstate, and he seems to bill them pretty regularly. But I don’t see them giving him a midyear bonus, do you?”

  “Probably not. Why not call them and ask?”

  “I plan to,” I said as the waitress set my order in front of me—chocolate chip pancakes and a side of bacon.

  Garima eyed it warily. “Are you having breakfast for dinner?”

  “I have had a trying day. This is soothing.”

  “You may be on to something,” she said, and ordered her own stack. “I’ll give you this, Frankie. You’ve got a knack for fighting with people nobody likes.”

  “Why don’t people like Strack? I applaud their instincts, of course.” I tucked a napkin into the front of my green plaid shirt. I was running out of clean clothes, and I wanted to avoid doing laundry—it felt like an admission I was settling in.

  “Not everyone is excited at the prospect of a sale. Strack stands to make a lot of money if the hospital sells—all of the upper-level administrators do. He’ll be able to climb even further up the corporate ladder. Stock options galore.”

  I made a face, then forked up a syrup-drenched bite of fluffy carbohydrates. “I take it the rest of the staff is not so thrilled?”

  “It’s like any oth
er merger—a lot of people lose their jobs in the name of redundancy, and the ones who are left have to pick up the slack. Plus, it’s a long drive to the next closest hospital.”

  “So why sell in the first place? The board doesn’t have to pursue this.”

  “Consolidation’s the name of the game,” she said. “Strack wields a lot of influence over the board. You’ve seen how tight he is with Hardy, and Hardy’s wife is on the board of trustees. It’s like a club, and he’s convinced them this is the way to go.”

  “Is this Cardiodyne trial really such a big deal?”

  “It is if they win FDA approval. It will boost the hospital’s reputation alongside Hardy’s, bring in more partnerships with Pharmagen and other companies.”

  “Which is why Strack and Hardy are so buddy-buddy,” I mused. “Would you stay, if the hospital sold?”

  “I’ve put a lot of hours into building that maternity ward. I’m not going to turn it over to someone who only cares about the bottom line.” She gave me a sly smile. “Not everyone feels the need to flee Stillwater at the earliest opportunity.”

  “I didn’t flee,” I protested.

  “Pfft.” She sipped at her tea. “You took off after high school, and whatever sent you running out of town has kept you away for more than a decade. Maybe it’s time to come back and deal with it. Or him, as the case may be.”

  “This isn’t about Noah,” I said, feeling the truth of it in my bones. Noah was a symptom. A symptom I had genuinely loved. The underlying problem was all me.

  “Then what is it about? Your mom? Charlie?” She folded her hands in front of her and met my gaze squarely. “Your dad?”

  I dragged my fork through a pool of maple syrup, appetite vanishing. “I never wanted the store. That’s why Noah and I made so many plans. We were going to travel. You know how portable a nursing degree is, and he was going to get a job working construction. We’d be able to go anywhere we wanted. When his dad took off, his mom couldn’t deal, and our plans . . . vanished. Suddenly we were talking about staying in Stillwater, and my mom was thrilled. It was exactly what she’d wanted all along—me, taking over the store, producing the next generation of Stapletons. My whole world was narrowing down to the view from the store counter, and I could feel it getting narrower, and narrower, and I couldn’t breathe.” My hand went to my throat, remembering the sensation. “I was afraid that if I didn’t make a clean break when I had the chance . . .”