Tampered

by Ross Pennie

  “There you are, boys,” she called as she approached. “Take these, will you, Earl?” She handed him a cardboard tray supporting three Tim Hortons coffees with the red-and-yellow insignia of the chain’s famous spring promotion. It was the season for Roll Up the Rim, the company’s annual lottery that had everyone in Canada unwinding the rims of their cups to see what they’d won. Usually it was just an invitation to Please Play Again.

  The professor took the coffees, set them on the table, then helped Miss Wedderspoon out of her coat. She draped it over the back of a nearby sofa, along with her purse. Mr. Greenwood made the introductions, and the sprightly woman dropped her slim frame into the wingback chair that Professor Crabtree pushed into their circle.

  Miss Wedderspoon scrutinized her mud-spattered galoshes and seemed to find them wanting. “I hate the slush that March brings,” she tsked. “But better than a blizzard, I suppose.” She turned to Natasha. “Sorry, Miss Sharma, I only brought three coffees.” She paused, then lifted the cup in front of her and held it out. “Here . . . If you can stand it with double cream, no sugar, take this one.”

  “I’m fine,” said Natasha. “Thank you. You go ahead.”

  “Are you sure? You’re welcome to it.”

  Natasha smiled and shook her head.

  Professor Crabtree pried the lids from all three cups with his gnarled fingers in what seemed to be an expected ritual.

  “Did you see Melvin off?” Miss Wedderspoon asked.

  The light in the eyes of both men faded for a moment. Their lips tightened.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Greenwood. “The dear fellow’s gone. They’re going to hold his service on Friday afternoon. Wentworth United. His daughter was here earlier but she got called away.”

  “Her BlackBerry again, I suppose?” said Miss Wedderspoon.

  The look on Mr. Greenwood’s face said he was reluctant to admit the answer was yes.

  “Don’t knock them till you try one,” the professor said.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got one.”

  Professor Crabtree teased her with the sparkle in his eyes and didn’t answer.

  “Enough of that,” said Miss Wedderspoon. “How’s Betty?”

  Mr. Greenwood’s shoulders slumped. He stared into his coffee as though hoping it might portend better news. “Not much change. Still on IV fluids.”

  “She has to keep drinking,” Miss Wedderspoon said. “I was reading on the Internet that the worst thing you can do with gastro is to stop eating and drinking. The bowel gets lazy if it’s not stimulated. Just like the rest of the body, it needs exercise.”

  “I think Dr. Wakefield has everything in hand,” said Professor Crabtree.

  “He’s sending her tomorrow to that clinic on Ottawa Street for X-rays of her stomach,” Mr. Greenwood added.

  “Emergency at Caledonian won’t accept any of us over eighty with diarrhea,” the professor told Natasha. “Something to do with practising medicine based strictly on scientific evidence, and a new rule they’re calling Deep Six.” He shook his head in disgust. “Caledonian, my own alma mater, terrified we old geezers will contaminate the hallowed halls of their medical centre.”

  “Ridiculous,” said Miss Wedderspoon. “You’d think we were fossilized freeloaders.”

  “We should march in there with our tax returns,” Mr. Greenwood said. “Show them we still pay the taxes that keep that palace running.”

  Miss Wedderspoon scowled and shook her head. She blew on her coffee, then took a sip. “Is Gloria back from the airport?”

  “Airport?” Natasha said.

  The feather on her hat waved like a zany flag as she flicked her head and scowled. “She’s picking up Joe, that lazy nephew of hers. We just got rid of him after Christmas. And here he is back again. He’ll be canoodling with some girl on the sofa again. And snapping up the only tea-time goodies that aren’t hard as Precambrian granite.”

  “His grandmother did just pass,” said Professor Crabtree. “He’s coming for her funeral.”

  “She didn’t pass, she died. Plain and simple. Just like we’re all going to do if Gloria keeps poisoning us.”

  “You don’t need to worry. You seem to be completely immune,” said Mr. Greenwood. “The good Lord gave you a cast-iron stomach.”

  She took a long draft of her coffee then gazed into some imaginary distance. “So far.”

  An idea was forming in Natasha’s head. “I’ve done my best to pinpoint the source of the gastro, but it’s proved impossible for me. It’s time I tapped into your observational skills and insider knowledge.”

  The two men cooed politely, while Miss Wedderspoon put on her skeptical frown.

  “You know all the residents and the habits that make them unique,” Natasha continued. “People will tell you things they’d never tell me, a stranger.”

  She was never sure how much her youth and her brown skin were a hindrance here. Everything at Camelot was white: the hair, the skin, the servers’ blouses, the table linens, the china, the mashed potatoes, the attitudes, the university degrees. It was time she harnessed local knowledge, as Dr. Zol liked to call it.

  “We’ll only solve this if we can figure out which foods are responsible for the outbreak,” she told them. “Maybe we can’t determine exactly who ate what, and when they ate it, but we can discover trends. People have strong likes and dislikes when it comes to food. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Certainly do,” said Miss Wedderspoon. “And we hear about them ad nauseam. Like the puzzle sisters. So damn fussy they give me the pip. When I was a child my mother insisted I eat every morsel on my plate. I still do.”

  Mr. Greenwood leaned toward Natasha and patted her forearm. “That’s not quite true. She never eats the soup.”

  “And you know perfectly well why not,” said Miss Wedderspoon. She turned to Natasha. “It’s always too damn cold, if you’ll excuse my French.”

  The professor pursed his lips and aimed his concentrated gaze at Natasha. “Please continue, Miss Sharma.”

  With the two men running interference against Miss Wedderspoon’s interruptions, Natasha explained what she’d like the three of them to do.

  When they completed their game plan, there was still no sign of Gloria Oliveira. Professor Crabtree helped Natasha into her coat and escorted her to the front door. She promised to return in the afternoon with clipboards and questionnaires for their food survey. When she turned to wave goodbye, the three of them were rolling up the rims of their Tim Hortons coffee cups, eager to find a winner. She hoped her idea would be a winner, too.

  CHAPTER 12

  Hamish propped his elbows on the counter at the Mountain Wing’s nursing station and rubbed his eyes. He could barely keep his head up. What day was it? He peered at his watch. Tuesday, the seventeenth, St. Patrick’s Day. The end of another long night shift. His third in a row. The nurses had wakened him three times: twice when Betty’s blood pressure dropped, and a final time when blood began oozing from her rectum. It didn’t help that Zol had been calling every twelve hours for an update, and the news was more discouraging every time they spoke.

  He punched Caledonian’s number into the phone, pressed the receiver to his ear, and waited for Dr. Jeff Suszek to pick up at Caledonian’s Emergency Department.

  “What’s up, Hamish?” Suszek said, breathing heavily, as though he’d run the length of his department. “You still at that nursing home?”

  “Remember the woman I told you about, the executive assistant to a former Prime Minister? She’s circling the drain. I filled her full of the IV fluids you sent me, but it’s been four days now and the vancomycin still hasn’t kicked in. Her fever’s up, she’s in and out of shock, and she’s one step short of renal shutdown.”

  If Betty’s disease got any worse, her colon was going to tear apart and all her internal organs were going to shut down.

  “We couldn’t do any better with her here,” Suszek said. “And you’ve probably got a hell of a lot more space.”


  “But Jeff, I’m at my wits’ end. She’s a really fine woman who served her country well. Before this, she was in great general health. But now it looks like she’s going to die on me.”

  “I’d like to help, Hamish. You know that. But I’ve got no wiggle room.” Suszek cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “I already told you — the dean and CEO are adamant. No gastros from nursing homes when they fail the . . . you know, the ministry’s Deep Six rule. We can’t take the risk of a hospital outbreak when the evidence shows that hospitalization won’t make them any better.”

  “How about a direct admit to intensive care?”

  “You know we can’t do that. Patients have to be assessed in Emerg before they’re allowed upstairs. How old is she, again?”

  “Um . . . Eighty-six. A good eighty-six. Still winning at bridge and writing her memoirs.”

  “Does she have an advanced directive?”

  Hamish didn’t want to admit it, but Betty had made it clear: no heroics, no life-support machines. Not under any circumstances. “I’m not sure.”

  “Check on it. If she doesn’t want to be hooked up to a ventilator, there’s no point in sending her to ICU. You’ll just have to tough it out in the nursing home.”

  Hamish decided to try a different tack. “I need a surgical opinion. Her belly’s very tender and it’s blown up like a balloon. Maybe she needs surgery.”

  “Let me check who’s on today.” The phone clunked as Suszek dropped the handset on a desk. Hamish could hear coughing, crying, and beeping in the distance. Suszek panted into the phone a few moments later. “You’re in luck. Josh Rooney’s on call for general surgery. He visited my mother in her nursing home last year. Adjusted her feeding tube so she wouldn’t have to make the trip back to the hospital. Give Josh a call. Look, I gotta go.”

  “But . . .”

  The phone went dead in Hamish’s hand. He pictured Suszek striding to his next case, sweat staining the back of his scrubs.

  He documented the details of Caledonian’s refusal in Betty’s chart. Her parliamentary connections in Ottawa guaranteed that sooner or later the federal politicos would be calling for a public inquiry into the province’s rule limiting the elderly’s access to health care; it would be crucial to be on the side of the good guys when the lawyers ripped everyone apart and the politicians blamed the doctors for everything. He pocketed his ballpoint and looked toward the sound of approaching footsteps. Two figures emerged from the gloom in the hallway. He rubbed his eyes and heaved himself out of his chair.

  “Zol. Natasha. What are you doing here?”

  “Seeing what you’re up to, good buddy,” said Zol. He squeezed Hamish’s shoulder. “How are you? Sorry. I shouldn’t ask. You look like hell. And . . . I know you’re doing the best you can for Betty. My boss tried to get Caledonian to take her. Even spoke to the CEO. But even Peter Trinnock couldn’t get them to budge on their Deep Six rule. Her former connections to the Prime Minister’s Office didn’t faze them a bit. Too bad she’s not a provincial VIP.”

  Hamish hated politics, especially the federal-provincial squabbling over health-care jurisdiction that threatened to grind the system to a halt. He ran his hand over his flat-top and tucked in his shirt. He knew he must look a mess. But what did Zol expect?

  “Bet you haven’t had breakfast yet,” Zol said. “We stopped at the Nitty Gritty. Brought you a latte and a Brunch Bandit scone with all the trimmings. Go have a shower, then meet us downstairs. We’ve got something to show you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It was a tight squeeze, but Zol managed to fit five chairs around a card table in the common room, with just enough space for Art to roll in on his scooter. A quick shower had livened Hamish up, and he was nibbling on his Brunch Bandit scone. After each small bite he swept the stray crumbs off the wrapper and onto a paper serviette he kept to the side. It was the same way with clinical problems — Hamish tackled them one bite at a time, assembling the facts into a unified solution.

  Natasha had assembled her three deputies, the Camelot Irregulars: Art, Earl, and Phyllis. Their eyes crinkling with apprehension, they sat with pens and clipboards poised. The yellow feather in Phyllis’s hat fluttered with every dip and shake of her head.

  “I gather your survey is complete?” Zol asked Natasha.

  “Certainly is,” Phyllis replied. “Maude and Myrtle finished the last of their assignments over breakfast this morning. We’ve now polled the eating habits of everyone in the Belvedere Wing.” She peered at Earl over the top of her spectacles. “Some of us are very fussy and others of us will eat everything put in front of them.” She paused as a self-satisfied smirk came over her face. “Within reason, of course. Out of politeness and good breeding.”

  “And lack of taste buds,” Earl countered with a playful smile.

  “Well,” Natasha said, “I have to tell you. You people are amazing.”

  “You mean to say you’re amazed that we old ducks could complete a simple questionnaire about what we like to eat?” Phyllis said.

  “Heck, Phyllis,” Earl said. “Just accept the young woman’s affirmation.”

  “So what have we got?” Zol asked.

  “To start with,” Earl began, “the soup has turned out to be a hot issue.” He looked at Art, as though sharing a confidence. “Or not so hot, depending how you look at it.”

  “Yes,” Phyllis said. “We residents are deeply divided over soup. Some of us insist on it at every meal.” She glared at Art. “Then complain about it incessantly.”

  “Others never touch it at all,” said Earl. “Even when it’s put in front of them.” He motioned to Phyllis with his open palm. “A case in point, our dear Latin scholar. The puzzle sisters never touch it either.”

  Natasha’s eyes brightened. She picked up her pen and turned to a clean page in her scribbler. “Any correlation between drinking the soup and getting gastroenteritis?”

  “We haven’t got that far,” said Earl. “We thought that was more your purview. Perhaps it needs a computer.”

  “Except,” Art said, looking straight at Phyllis, “we know that three of the healthiest people at Camelot never eat soup.”

  Zol took out his pen. “And who are —”

  A rumble and crash echoed from the front door as two figures burst into the lobby. “Help!” It was more a moan than a shout. “Call an ambulance.”

  Zol could see that it was a couple, a man and a woman. Their faces were covered in blood.

  Hamish was the first on his feet. He pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from his pocket and dashed toward the dining room. He grabbed two chairs from a table set for dinner and ran with them to the two bloodied figures standing hunched together by the reception desk. Zol joined him there.

  Hamish’s hallmark fussiness dissolved in the heat of the emergency. He yanked a second pair of gloves from his pocket and handed them to Zol. “Here. Put these on. We have to staunch the bleeding.” He called to the receptionist, transfixed behind her desk. “Dial nine-one-one.”

  Zol pulled on the gloves, barely stretching them over his oversized fingers. The vinyl ripped at the cuffs, but would do the job. He helped Hamish settle the couple — blood-soaked and moaning — into the chairs. Then he steadied them while Hamish grabbed handfuls of linen serviettes from the dining-room tables.

  The figures pressed the napkins against their bloodied eyes. Hamish folded one and held it against a gash spurting from the man’s scalp. Zol did the same with the laceration running the length of the woman’s cheek and jaw. When she’d dabbed the worst of the blood from around her eyes, Zol suddenly realized who it was.

  “Mrs. Oliveira. It’s you,” said Zol. “What happened?”

  “That bastard,” said the man. “Going to friggin’ pay this time.”

  Now that Hamish had the man’s spurting scalp wound under control, Zol could see he was a generation younger than Gloria Oliveira. “You’re Joe, aren’t you?” Zol said. He turned to Hamish. “Gloria’s nephew. From P
ortugal.”

  With his free hand, Zol felt Gloria’s wrist for her radial pulse. It seemed about a hundred. And strong enough. Hamish examined the man with the swift, coordinated movements of a cellist. He checked the eyes, the nose, the jaw, then ran his hands over the four limbs, apparently looking for paralysis and broken bones. He felt the man’s neck, looking for the pain of a cervical fracture, then the abdomen for signs of major trauma. Zol tried to do the same for the woman, but knew his technique couldn’t match the elegance of his friend’s.

  “What happened?” Hamish asked when he’d satisfied himself that Joe’s condition wasn’t immediately critical.

  Joe scowled and said nothing.

  “Were you in your car?”

  Joe shrugged, then stared at his blood-drenched sneakers.

  “Almost . . . home,” said Gloria. She could barely form the words. Her lips were swollen, and blood was oozing from around her teeth. It occurred to Zol that her jaw might be broken.

  “Bastard side-swiped us in the Malibu.”

  Gloria’s eyes filled with terror. “An accident.”

  Joe clenched his teeth. “No goddamn way it was an accident.”

  Hamish peered through the front entrance. “Is the other driver injured?”

  “Took off. Just like those two other times,” Joe said.

  “You know him?” asked Hamish.

  “Dark glasses,” Gloria offered. “And black toque.”

  “You didn’t see his face?” Hamish said.

  “The bastard,” said Joe.

  “Was it someone you know?” said Hamish.

  Joe turned away, then grimaced at the pain inflicted by the hasty movement of his neck and shoulders. He’d taken quite a blow to his head.

  “Look,” Hamish said, “either it was or it wasn’t someone you know. Which is it?” He was trying to apply the same logic to a crime scene that he applied to clinical medicine. Zol figured it was a waste of time. They should let the police sort it out. Hamish pressed again. “Did you catch his licence plate number?”