Time of Death

by Lucy Kerr

“That Jimmy killed Clem? I can see why you like him for it, but . . .”

  “But he’s dumb as a box of rocks?”

  His lips twitched. “Lazy, too.”

  Hearing Noah confirm my own late-night fears was dispiriting. But my gut said Jimmy was involved in Clem’s death. There had to be some kind of explanation.

  “Maybe he had help,” I suggested. “That brunette looked fit to kill.”

  “You’re reaching, and you know it.” Noah headed back to his cruiser. “If I asked the sheriff to open an investigation right now, he’d laugh me out of the station. And the DA would, too. Everything you’ve got is circumstantial.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  He sighed as he got in, starting the engine and rolling down the window. “Talk to Laura and convince her to request the autopsy. Once the results are back, we can talk. Until then, leave Jimmy Madigan alone—he’s a weasel, but weasels bite when they’re cornered.”

  I wanted to scream with frustration, to reach inside the cruiser and throttle Noah, to shake some sense into him. He knew I was right, and I knew the stubborn set to his jaw better than anyone. He wasn’t going to budge. “Why can’t you trust me on this?”

  He jammed his sunglasses on and gave me a long, inscrutable look.

  “Because I’m not seventeen anymore,” he said, and drove away.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I found Laura in the library, reshelving books after a preschool story time.

  “I loved this one when I was a kid,” I said, picking up a sticky copy of Bedtime for Frances.

  “It’s a classic for a reason,” she said. “I thought you were coming by later. Did you want to join the book club?”

  I paused, and she read the answer on my face.

  “This doesn’t look promising,” she said, and sank onto one of the child-sized plastic chairs. For a moment, she held her hands to her face, then folded them in her lap, threw back her shoulders, and met my eyes. “I’m ready.”

  Was she? There was no good way to tell her that her father had been murdered. Usually, the doctors notified family members of a patient’s death, and I was simply there for support. This felt alien and infinitely worse, like I was ripping open an old wound in the most jagged, brutal way possible.

  “You know the hospital is investigating me in relation to your dad’s death.”

  She nodded. “It’s ridiculous. I’m so sorry—it’s because of the lawsuit, isn’t it?”

  “Partly. If they can show I was responsible, not them, they might not have to pay as much money—or none at all, depending on how they handle it. Regardless, I might lose my nursing license.”

  “Jimmy wants money, and he doesn’t care who the lawsuit hurts.”

  “Jimmy is a problem.” I drew a chair closer and sat across from her. “But I’m telling you this is because I need you to understand why I’ve been investigating, too. On my own.”

  She frowned. “What is there to investigate? He had a heart attack, Frankie. You tried to help him, the doctors tried to help him, but . . . it was just his time.”

  “That’s the thing,” I said. “I don’t think it was your dad’s time. Dr. Hardy had already put the stent in; he was stabilized and his vitals all looked good. There was no reason to think he wouldn’t recover.”

  “They said I could wait until morning to see him,” she murmured.

  “Everyone expected him to make a full recovery. I think the reason he didn’t was because someone interfered. Deliberately. I think that’s what killed him.”

  Blood drained from Laura’s cheeks, and she swayed like a tree about to topple. Just as I reached for her, she straightened, refocusing on me.

  “Murdered.”

  The word sounded so wretched when she said it. So violent and incongruous in this cheerful primary-painted room, surrounded by puzzles and picture books.

  “They told me it was a heart attack,” she said. “Dr. Hardy said—”

  “I know. But your dad’s blood work showed that he wasn’t taking his medication, and when I had the pills analyzed—”

  “When you what?” she demanded, loud enough that one of the other librarians glared at us.

  I swallowed, fighting off the sensation that the conversation was rapidly veering off course. “I had a pharmacist look at the pills yesterday, and according to him—”

  “My father’s pills? How did you—oh,” she said. “Oh, I am so stupid. We went to the cabin. I took you there. I invited you in.”

  “I know it’s a lot to process,” I began.

  “That’s why you’ve been so kind. So thoughtful—dinner invitations, and helping with the business, and everything else you’ve done. You don’t actually care. You were using me to clear your name.”

  I kept my voice soft, the same soothing tone I used to calm patients. “I helped you because your dad seemed like a good person.”

  “He was. But you aren’t. You lied to me, Frankie. You let me believe you were my friend.”

  “I am!”

  “A friend wouldn’t lie, or hold back this kind of thing. A friend would have told me from the first time we met.”

  “I didn’t know! The first time we met, I was . . .”

  I was checking for clues inside Clem’s hospital room.

  “It was a feeling I had,” I explained. “Instinct. But if you’d asked me that day, I wouldn’t have said it was murder.”

  “What would you have said?”

  “Medical error, maybe? Negligence? Once the hospital came after me, I figured I would sound like a crazy person if I started shouting murder, so I didn’t say anything.”

  “You did say something. You said, ‘Let me help you, Laura. I understand how you feel, Laura.’ But you didn’t, not really.”

  “I understand what it’s like to lose a father. The last thing you needed was me stirring up more trouble, especially if there was nothing to show for it.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what I need.” She stood and glared down at me. “You have no idea what I need or how I feel.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice small. “I wanted to help.”

  “I don’t want your help!” After a moment, she seemed to gather herself, though her eyes were bright with fury. “You’re right, though. I do think you’re a crazy person. Who would want to kill my father?”

  I took a deep breath. “How about your husband?”

  Shock is a strange beast. It can kill a person—once a patient goes into shock their entire body can shut down. But if they’re not in immediate physical danger, shock can break the mind as swiftly as any blow to the head.

  Judging from Laura’s laughter—holding-her-side, breathless, verging on hysterical laughter—that’s exactly what my news had caused. I should have cushioned the words a little more. Led up to it, used a softer tone. I’d misjudged the situation, unsettled by Laura’s anger and my own discomfort.

  So I waited and watched, and when she finally slowed down to the occasional giggle, I put my hand on hers. “I know it’s terrible to hear.”

  “It’s ludicrous,” she said, shaking me off. “Jimmy . . . no. He’s not a prize, but he’s no killer. Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Money? If your dad dies while you two are still married, he’d get half of the inheritance.”

  “What inheritance? A falling-apart van? A cabin in the middle of nowhere? My father wasn’t exactly wealthy.”

  “But he wasn’t broke, either. And for someone like Jimmy, even a little money might be a motive.” I’d seen people knifed over ten dollars. Sometimes it wasn’t the dollar amount triggering someone’s greed, but the mere fact of the disparity: the killer saw someone who had something—anything—they didn’t, and in that moment, sheer wanting warped their judgment into something violent and possessive.

  “Jimmy’s one of those guys who feels like the world owes him something. Owes him everything. He figured out your dad was helping you save up the money to divorce him and wasn’t going
to let that happen.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, but the waver in her voice told me her resistance was softening.

  “Your dad was the handyman at Jimmy’s motel. According to him, your dad said something about how it wouldn’t be long before you were done with him. He probably knew your dad didn’t lock the cabin, and he’d know when your dad was working on a project at the motel, so he’d have time to get out there and switch the pills.”

  She massaged her temples. “What was wrong with his medication?”

  “They weren’t what his doctor had prescribed—at least one of them made his condition worse. Without the right meds, your dad was pretty much guaranteed to have a heart attack. I think Jimmy swapped the pills, hoping that’s what would happen.”

  She stared at me, and I rushed on. “I know it’s a stretch, Jimmy knowing that much about heart medications. But you can find out all that information on the Internet. One of the drugs he swapped is available over the counter.” It didn’t explain how he’d gotten a prescription for Thrombinase, but I had a feeling that, when it came to illegally acquiring controlled substances, Jimmy contained hidden depths.

  “The hospital treated him after his heart attack,” Laura whispered. “They said after he had the stent put in that his prognosis was good.”

  “It was,” I said. “Once Jimmy heard your dad had made it to the hospital, he must have worried that he would be caught, so he went in to finish the job. The security at Stillwater Gen is terrible. He could have snuck in during change of shift, and . . .”

  I trailed off. I was giving Jimmy a lot of credit—more than he deserved. How had he known what time shift change happened? For that matter, how had he managed to sneak past Marcus in the dead of night? How had he found out Clem had been admitted? How had he known how to tamper with the monitors, or give Clem a poison that wouldn’t trigger the coroner’s suspicion?

  Jimmy wasn’t that smart.

  And neither was I, apparently.

  “What if he had a partner?” I asked. “Someone at the hospital who was feeding him information? Helping him get access? Does he have any friends who work there?”

  “He might,” she said slowly. “A few years ago, he got a job there as a custodian. They fired him after a few months, but he might have stayed in touch with some of the guys.”

  I stared at her. “Jimmy worked for the hospital? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered.” The laughter was gone now, the disbelief leaching away and anger taking its place. “I didn’t know my father had been murdered, remember?”

  Fair enough.

  “If Jimmy did have a partner inside the hospital, they could have called him when your dad was admitted.” Even in the chaos of the bus crash, talk of my confrontation with Paul Costello had spread quickly. Jimmy’s partner would have heard about it within hours, at most. A custodian could have moved freely in and out of Clem’s room, even in the middle of the night. They were so familiar as to be practically invisible, with access to every department. They’d be familiar enough with the monitors to put them in hospice mode.

  I explained all of this to Laura, how neatly it fit, and her pale cheeks flushed with anger.

  “Do you think Jimmy . . . suffocated him?” She covered her mouth with a white-knuckled fist, then said, “Did he suffer? Did he know what was happening?”

  The thoughts of Clem’s final moments had kept me awake at night, too. But I kept my voice gentle. “I don’t think so. The medical examiner would have picked up any signs of a struggle, and there’s nothing about it in the postmortem.”

  “How?” she asked hoarsely. “How did they kill him?”

  “Poison, probably. Some kind of drug. But we won’t know for sure unless they do an autopsy.”

  “Haven’t they done one?”

  I shook my head. “Hospitals don’t perform autopsies unless there’s a reason—or a request. That’s where you come in. I need you to talk to Walter Strack and ask for an autopsy. Once we have the results, we can go to the police.”

  “The police,” she echoed. “They’ll arrest Jimmy?”

  “They’ll open an investigation,” I said. “Bring him in for questioning, go over all the evidence. Once they’ve got enough, they’ll arrest him, and his partner.”

  “For killing my father.” She stood up so quickly she knocked over the chair. “You said he’s at a motel?”

  “Piney Woods,” I said. “But Laura, you can’t confront Jimmy. He’s dangerous.”

  “Not as dangerous as I am,” she said flatly.

  “If you tip him off, he might run. He might hurt you, or CJ. Be logical.”

  “Logical? My husband left me, then killed my father rather than give me a divorce, and I’m supposed to be logical?”

  “If he runs, he can’t be punished. If you hurt him, you’ll be punished, and then what happens to CJ? All you need to do is tell the hospital you want an autopsy. The police will handle the rest.”

  She looked away from me, fingers twisting the hem of her sweater. “The medical examiner?”

  “It has to come from you,” I said. “You’re the next of kin.”

  She nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” I didn’t like her color or her fast, shallow breathing. Shock, I thought again. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  “You’ve done enough, Frankie.” She glanced past me, toward the doorway, and forced a smile. “And I’m not alone, because here are my Busy Bee Threes! We’ve got a great story time today . . . come on in!”

  Round-cheeked preschoolers swarmed around her, and she met my eyes even as she passed out hugs. “We’ll talk later,” she said, a clear dismissal.

  I left, trying to ignore the alarm prickling along my spine. The autopsy would prove me right, save my career, put a killer behind bars. It was exactly what I’d wanted.

  So why didn’t I feel better?

  TWENTY-TWO

  I didn’t hear from Laura for the rest of the day. I called, three separate times, and each went directly to voice mail. Rather than brood, I hung out with Riley, playing endless games of Go Fish and War and Life, which took a lot longer than I remembered from my own youth.

  The next morning was Saturday, our busiest day. My mom asked me to open, so Riley and I rode over together—Riley on her bright-purple two-wheeler with a flower-studded basket and me on my ancient red ten-speed, the tires remarkably still good after I’d pumped them up.

  Bent on racing me, Riley poured on speed while I coasted behind her, steering with one hand and clutching coffee in the other, a box of doughnuts in my backpack. My bike in the city had a basket, a water bottle holder, and even saddlebags on the back, all for easier commuting, and I thought longingly of it.

  Funny, but aside from my bike—and my own bedroom—I wasn’t longing for anything else about my old life. The messages from Peter had tapered off, and all I felt was relief. Even the temptation to call the ER and catch up with Mindy again had faded. Clem’s death and Rowan’s birth were providing plenty of excitement.

  Riley called something undecipherable from around the corner of our building. “What?” I asked as I coasted into the back parking lot. She’d already left her bike leaning against the railing, and I paused to lock them together. Stillwater wasn’t the kind of place where people stole bikes, but it wasn’t the kind of place people were murdered, either.

  “There’s a cat in the store.” Riley was balanced on her tiptoes, peering through the glass pane set high in the door. “He looks mean.”

  “A cat?” I straightened. “Is he orange?”

  “Very. I think it’s a cat. Maybe it’s something else. What do badgers look like?”

  “Good grief.” I nudged Riley aside and fitted my key into the lock, squinting. “It is a cat. How did he get in?”

  In truth, I was more concerned with his exit than his entry. “We need to catch him and then scoot him out, okay?”

&n
bsp; “I’m not touching him,” Riley said. “He has fangs. I saw them.”

  “He doesn’t have . . . okay, he might. We can’t have him in the store, though. Grandma will pitch a fit. You keep an eye on him while I grab a broom, and we’ll shoo him outside. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Riley said with a nod. I opened the door, annoyed again at the lack of alarm, and took a deep breath.

  The store smelled . . . wrong. Beneath the usual familiar odors of paint thinner and mineral spirits and fresh-cut lumber was something else, something . . . fetid and sticky. My stomach clenched. Because it was a familiar scent, but not the kind of familiar I associated with caulk guns and garden supplies.

  The cat was sitting now atop the counter, haughty and slit-eyed.

  “Tell me you caught a mouse,” I said to the cat. “Tell me you caught a mouse, and I will buy you a can of tuna.”

  The cat blinked and stretched.

  “Do you think Mom would let me have a cat?” Riley asked.

  “Not this one,” I muttered. “Don’t you guys have your hands full right now? Rowan will be home before you know it.”

  “Yeah, but Rowan is Mom and Dad’s,” she said. “The cat would be for me. I could put it in little hats and stuff.”

  The cat laid its ears back and hissed.

  “Or maybe just feed him treats,” she said hurriedly. “The feed store sells all sorts of cat stuff.”

  “Mmn-hmn.” I placed a hand on my stomach, trying to quell the swirling sense of dread. “I’m going to get that broom. Stay here. In fact, why don’t you hold the door open for me.”

  Riley nodded and skipped back to the door, the bell jingling cheerfully. “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.”

  “Come on, kitty,” I said sourly. “Time to go.”

  Instead, the cat padded to the far end of the counter, looked back over its shoulder at me, and yowled. Twice.

  “I’m not picking you up,” I said, drawing closer. “I am not a cat person.”

  The cat jumped, landing on the wooden floors lightly, and waited for me to catch up.

  I followed him past the aisles of electrical supplies, of paint chips and varnish and sandpaper. My unease grew with every step, and so did the smell. “You want to go out the front door? Be my guest.”