“Yes, sorry about that. They’re used to going wherever they want.”
“Well, they’re not coming in my store.”
“Right. Well, can I come in?”
The woman grunted and jerked her head towards the entrance. Once inside, Beatrice still didn’t see why she wouldn’t allow cats in. The wood–paneled room was covered in dust. The shelves held rusting cans and crumpled packets of chips, probably to give it the appearance of a legitimate store. The bottles of liquor and packs of cigarettes behind the cash looked quite dust–free, on the contrary.
“What can I get for you?” the woman croaked. “Sleeping pills? Something to get you through the day? Calm you down? Perk you up?”
“Uh,” Beatrice faltered. “No, my only drug is sugar. Well, and my blood pressure pills. I was wondering if you’ve gotten any orders for morphine and atropine lately?”
“Yeah sure. Someone called in a few weeks ago. Wanted both. Didn’t give a name. Couldn’t even tell if it was a man or woman.”
“And did they come in for them?”
“Nope. Person wanted them delivered. Don’t usually do that, but I charged a delivery fee. Got my grandson to swing by the place and drop them off.”
Beatrice felt her heart skip a beat. “And where was that?”
Mrs. Bennett frowned and began to sift through a disorderly file of papers. “Here it is.” She pushed a piece of paper at Beatrice, who snatched it up eagerly. To her surprise, it read: Doctor Bob Saunders, 113 Maple Lane, Ashbrook.
After a quick good–bye, Beatrice drove straight over to the doctor’s office, the sheriff on speakerphone as she went. He promised to meet her at the office.
Dr. Saunders’ receptionist was surprised to see Beatrice, but she rang through to the doctor straightaway. “He’s with a patient,” she said with a toothy smile. “He’ll see you right after.”
Beatrice sat in the waiting room, impatiently glancing through a six–month–old gossip magazine as thoughts whirled through her head. Had she suspected Ann wrongly? Was it kindly Dr. Saunders who was behind the poisonings after all? Beatrice hated this feeling: that she didn’t know who to trust in her town anymore.
The sheriff arrived soon after and they were admitted into the doctor’s office. He had a sunny consulting room with a bay window that looked onto a garden behind it. His credentials were framed on the wall behind a modern glass desk that had a sleek silver laptop sitting on it. The doctor looked up from a file as they came in and waved them towards chairs. The cats milled eagerly around the room, eying all the shelves with things in boxes and containers that they clearly wanted to get their paws into.
“A visit from you both must be serious,” he said, smiling slightly as he closed the file. “What can I do for you?”
“I visited the Bennett pharmacy in Waitsfield today,” Beatrice said. “Mrs. Bennett said an order came in from you a few weeks ago for morphine and atropine, to be delivered to your house.”
“And as you know, those were the two substances discovered in the three deceased Robinsons,” the sheriff added.
The doctor put his pen down slowly. “Oh dear. So I’m the suspect now, is it?” He sighed. “Folks, I would never use a disreputable pharmacy such as that one to order my supplies. Clinton’s provides me with everything I need. I also never have anything delivered, my secretary picks up all my orders.” He held up a finger. “Now, I’m aware that if I wanted to order something that’s not so easily traceable, I would order from Bennett’s. But, my mailbox is outside my house. Anyone could give my address and pick up a small parcel from it, if they chose to. Fortunately, I’ve never had to even think about such a possibility until today.”
The sheriff and Beatrice glanced at each other. “I see how that’s possible,” the sheriff said slowly. “Still, you can see how it doesn’t look good.”
“Yes, I can,” the doctor replied reasonably. “Though I invite you to check my phone records. I’ll give you all my numbers. You can see if I’ve placed a call to Bennett’s. I assure you, you’ll find nothing of the sort.”
Beatrice didn’t mention that he could easily have called via a pay phone. But she accepted copies of his office and cell bills from the past few months anyway. Hamish was keeping entertained by chasing after the reflection made by the doctor’s watch. The little bright spot wavered over the wall, driving the Maine Coon crazy. It rested on the doctor’s medical degree from Dartmouth College. It was too high up for Hamish to reach but he sprung up again and again anyway, desperately trying to reach the little spot. It struck Beatrice as odd, since it was usually Lucky who went bananas over reflections or laser points.
Before they left, Beatrice asked the doctor offhandedly, “So what’s your relationship with Ann like, anyway?”
“She’s the other suspect, is she?” the doctor asked. “We only know each other in a professional context. She’s very sweet. A very competent nurse too. That said…” he paused.
“Yes?” Beatrice asked, leaning forward.
“Sometimes I think she gets too close to her patients. I had an elderly patient who I was seeing. Ann was providing more regular, day–to–day care. This patient dismissed her one day so I asked her why, since everyone usually loved Ann so much. She told me that she’d fallen into a weird stupor one day and woken up to find Ann lying next to her in bed.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Beatrice gasped.
“Not at all. Ann said that she was just trying to comfort her and got up. But my patient found it too strange. I know Ann is very empathetic and she was probably just trying to provide comfort to a lonely patient who was in a lot of pain. But the person found it terribly awkward. That story always stuck with me, for some reason.” The doctor sighed and leaned back in his chair. “That said, I realize that anything I say will just make me sound defensive.”
“Still, I’d like to talk to this patient,” Beatrice said. “Can you give me her details?”
The doctor typed down her name and number in her phone. Beatrice and sheriff left the office looking rather perplexed.
“Well, this one’s a pickle,” the sheriff said, pulling at his moustache as they stood on the sidewalk in the warm sunshine.
“It’s creepy, is what it is,” Beatrice replied, hugging her arms around her to ward off the chill. “The more I hear about this Ann character, the less I like her. Thank goodness it’s usually the other way around with normal people.”
The sheriff raised one bushy eyebrow. “You alright, Bee? You’re a lot more pessimistic lately than I’m comfortable with.”
“Why do people keep asking me that?” she said irritably. “I’m fine. It’s life that’s wrong, not me.”
She whistled at the cats and strode away towards her car, leaving the sheriff staring after her, still pulling at his moustache, confused.
8
Beatrice knew she should call the sheriff and apologize for her rude behavior. And yet, something kept her from actually doing it. She knew she was in a right funk and didn’t like it one bit, but she couldn’t see a way out of it.
So she did what she always did when she was confused—she buried herself in work. The first thing she did was scratch a weird itch she had after seeing Hamish so focused on the doctor’s certifications in his office. She called Ann’s medical school to confirm whether she was truly licensed as a practicing nurse. To her astonishment, the enrolment office told her that Ann had left school the day before graduation and so hadn’t gotten her certificate. Meaning that, technically, she wasn’t a nurse at all.
Satisfied on that account, she tracked down Ann’s former patient and placed a call to her. A frail woman’s voice answered.
“Hi, is this Hattie MacLean?”
“Yes dear, it is.” The voice on the other line sounded excited, as if she didn’t get too many phone calls.
“Hattie, I’m so sorry to intrude but I’m working with the sheriff’s office here in Ashbrook to investigate an Ann Smith. She was your nurse at one time
, no?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Yes dear, that’s right. It was a couple of years ago. I was diagnosed with stage four ovarian cancer. My daughter had heard of Ann and hired her to stay with me during treatment. I reacted very badly to the chemo—I thought at one point the chemicals they were pumping into me would kill me before the cancer.” She laughed weakly. “But I’m still here, aren’t I!”
Beatrice’s heart went out to this obviously frail woman. “Can you tell me about how Ann was during her stay?”
“Certainly. She was always very attentive. Made jokes, listened to me, always knew how to raise my spirits. My family’s really spread out, so I was grateful for her constant care. I didn’t think anything was awry until the day I woke up with her next to me. I’d been aware she was giving me shots. I needed morphine for my pain. I slid into unconsciousness, dimly aware I might not wake up. But I did, and there was Ann lying in bed next to me with her arms around me, kissing me on the cheek.”
“Heavens! And then what happened?” Beatrice asked.
“She got out of bed the moment she realized I was awake. She acted as if nothing had happened, though she did say ‘oh don’t worry about that, let’s just go about our business.’ I always knew Ann was a very compassionate person but there was something off about her behavior that day—as if she didn’t expect me to wake up, because she acted ruffled when I did.”
“What do you think she was doing?” Beatrice asked slowly.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “It’s a terrible thing to think, but sometimes I wonder if she was … playing God, so to speak. I mean, I believe that she thought that I was in terrible pain, that she didn’t want me to suffer. Maybe that’s why she gave me too much morphine.”
Beatrice shuddered. “It’s hard to say, isn’t it? But I imagine Ann must have done this before. Why hasn’t anyone else reported it?”
“Ah my dear, I’m sure they would, if they hadn’t passed on—I know quite a few of her other patients. Most of them were near death so when they died, no one’s suspicions were aroused. Their families always said that she did the best that she could. Their grief was such that they were appreciative that Ann could take charge in that difficult time and keep everyone moving forward. I know that not all of her patients died—maybe it was because they had stronger constitutions, like me, or perhaps for some reason she didn’t feel impelled to well, put them under. Anyway, when I spoke up no one listened to me. She’s too well–loved. I still don’t get it—Ann borrowed a lot from her patients. She was always in debt. I don’t know what she spent her money on—probably just frittered it away.”
Well, that explained Ann’s debt to the Robinsons for the rent on their cottage. Beatrice ended the conversation with a firm sense of resolution: she needed to speak to Ann face–to–face. On the one hand, Beatrice felt like she owed the woman a chance to explain things for herself. On the other, she was tired of dancing around the issue. She wanted to confront Ann and get things out into the open.
A couple of phone calls got her Ann’s number and a quick series of texts secured an after–work meeting with her at the café. Beatrice waited breathlessly for the appointed hour. Her blood seemed to pound in her veins she was so excited. She’d spoken to Ann on many occasions, but they’d usually exchanged pleasantries—nothing more. Beatrice had always liked Ann, but never thought about her much beyond that.
At the appointed time, Beatrice sat down in the little nook between two bookshelves. The velvet–covered armchairs were separated by a little side table and they were removed enough from the other tables that they’d have a modicum of privacy. Beatrice thought the café best because of its informal setting. She didn’t want to scare Ann off or make it seem at all like she was going to be questioned—more like a chat between friends.
Sitting at the table with her matcha latte, Beatrice felt trembly all over, as if she was about to face Voldemort himself. So when Ann finally popped in through the door, looking as plain and non–threatening as could be, Bee felt nothing but shock. She studied her as she approached. Ann had a puffy, round face and her hair was pulled tightly back against her head and tucked into its characteristic bun, with a scrunchie, as per usual.
She was in all white, looking the very model of the scrubbed–down, no–nonsense health practitioner. Beatrice observed that she wasn’t an attractive person in the least, but she could see why people flocked to her—she gave off this aura of capability, as if someone could drop dead right in front of her and she could fix them up as good as new in no time flat.
“Beatrice, so nice of you to want to see me,” she chirruped, kissing Beatrice on the cheek and then squeezing her considerable rump into the high–backed chair. “I do love this café of yours. It’s so special. I’m more of a dog person myself, but your kitty–cats are nothing but precious.”
Bee couldn’t help stiffening at this. Anyone who didn’t like cats was automatically insane, morally suspect, or at the very least, seriously misguided. Apparently, her three cats felt the same way. They were sitting on chairs under tables and behind bookshelves around them—close but not too close. Even Lucky, who loved and approached everyone, hung back, his green eyes glinting as he crouched on a chair.
Ann ordered an English breakfast tea and then turned to face Bee. “So you’ve been asking around about me, have you?” She smiled so that her incisors showed.
Disarmed, Beatrice struggled with how to respond. “Um, I have actually”
“Oh don’t worry dear,” she said. “I completely understand. Three deaths in the Robinson family in a matter of weeks? It’s not something you see every day. I know you and the sheriff must leave no stone overturned and I’m happy to do what I can to help.”
Beatrice attempted a confused smile. “Absolutely. So glad you understand. Listen Ann, I wanted to talk to you directly about some of the things I’ve been hearing. I spoke to Hattie about you, and she feels like you tried to overdose her. And then there was your friend Betty, who said you liked to experiment with morphine and atropine, the very same substances that were found in the Robinsons’ bodies…”
“Oh dear, I know how that sounds,” Ann said, looking misty–eyed. “The thing is Bee, I deal with so many patients who are at a very critical point. They’re in a lot of pain and many of them die. I help them the best I can, to alleviate their pain, to comfort them. Usually that’s by keeping an upbeat attitude and listening to them. But, it’s also part of my job to administer pain killers. Sometimes, after they’ve received a dose they don’t come back—it’s perfectly natural, you see. They’re ready to go. I just happen to be the one to witness it most often. Cost of the profession, you see.”
She took a sip of her tea then, her brown eyes looking warmly over the rim of the cup at Beatrice. Bee felt a bit silly, like she’d been seeing the sinister in the perfectly normal. But there was something in what Ann said that didn’t quite sit right with her.
“That makes a lot of sense. But I just want to see if I completely understand,” Bee said, leaning forward. “I mean, when Hattie almost died she wasn’t ready to go. In fact, she said you seemed surprised that she survived. And she’s still living now.”
“Yes, but what kind of quality of life does she have now? She was suffering terribly when I tended to her. She’s lived longer sure, but at what cost? I know you must have heard the pain in her voice.”
Beatrice frowned. “Yes. But it’s up to her to decide if she wants to live with that pain. Are you implying that you should be able to decide when people pass on?”
“I don’t think I said that,” Ann said, a line appearing between her brows.
“Not exactly. But it seems like your attitude is that these people are going to die anyway and it’s up to you to make the process easier. Even if that means speeding it up.”
Without realizing it, Beatrice’s voice had been getting higher and louder. People were starting to stare from other tables. Most of them knew that where
Beatrice went, drama followed.
“Bee, I think you’re getting a bit riled up,” Ann said mildly, putting her cup back in the saucer. “We don’t want to create a scene, do we?”
“I’m too old to care if I’m making people uncomfortable,” Bee said, not caring who heard. “It’s the truth I’m after. And I’ve heard too much about you now to believe that you have people’s best interests at heart. I’m not afraid to make myself very unpopular by going after you, Ann. And it’s definitely not going to help when it comes out that you don’t even have your nursing licence.”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “Licence or not, how dare you accuse me of not having my patients’ best interests at heart? That’s all I think about, care about. I don’t even have a permanent home because I always live with my patients. I don’t even have my own life. I don’t date, I don’t have hobbies. I dedicate all of my time and energy to my patients’ well–being. It’s been my life’s work and I don’t take it lightly when someone insults that. You haven’t a shred of real proof, Beatrice Young, nor will you find any. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time I go.”
Ann collected her purse and swept off, leaving the bell jangling on the door as it closed behind her. Beatrice took a deep breath. People were still staring at her. She gave a shrug, as if she had no idea what had just happened, and then quickly pulled out her phone to send the sheriff a text message about what had just happened.
Beatrice was about halfway through her text message opus when she heard a familiar horking sound to her right. She looked over the arm of her chair and spotted Hamish crouched on the ground, his ruff standing straight up, barfing his dinner onto the hardwood floor.
“Oh boy, not another hairball,” Beatrice said. She grabbed a bunch of napkins and cleaned up the mess, then picked up Hamish. As soon as she held the big cat in her arms she noticed something was wrong. He was as limp as a rag doll. His eyes were running and as he continued to vomit, his whole body heaved as if it were trying to expel every last thing out of it…
Beatrice Young 7- The Paw-sitively Cheerful Poisoner Page 5
