Dark Path

by Melissa F. Miller

  Cleo cocked her head. “Mob hits? I haven’t heard that one yet.”

  Lynette waved a hand. “Oh, that’s Pete Green’s pet theory. Of course, Pete’s also the guy who sends around chain emails promising that Steve Jobs will give everyone in America a free iPad. And it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve reminded him that Steve Jobs is six feet under. He’s still waiting for that iPad to show up from a zombie. So, consider the source on the assassination theory.”

  Cleo smiled wryly. “It’s true enough that things are a little tense among the administrators. We certainly don’t like to see guests dying. And we’re sort of at a loss to figure out why.”

  She was surprised to hear such an honest admission of her concerns tumble from her mouth, but Lynette Johnson seem to have that effect on people.

  Lynette nodded sagely. “I know. And it scares the bejeezus out of me.”

  Cleo was equally stunned to hear Lynette admit her fear. “We’re doing everything we can,” she promised lamely.

  After a moment, Lynette said, “Well, I expect that fancy forensics consultant who came in from the Northeast might be able to help shed some light as to what’s going on around here.”

  “How did you …?” she trailed off as Lynette cackled.

  “I never burn my sources, honey. But looks like the boat’s coming into the dock now. You might want to hustle down there and meet them.”

  She nodded toward her window, which overlooked the water, and Cleo followed her gaze. Sure enough The Golden Seas, Golden Shores’ yacht, was docking.

  Leave it to Lynette to be as plugged in at Golden Shores as she’d surely been with the county criminal court back in her heyday.

  “You have a nice afternoon, Lynette. And don’t worry, I promise, we’re going to get to the bottom of this.” She locked eyes with the older woman.

  Lynette regarded her for several long seconds, her dark brown eyes intense.

  “I expect you will. In the meantime, I’m sticking with my bottled water and meals I have ordered in from the mainland, thank you very much. And I’ll just keep good old Saint Lazarus here handy.” She patted her statue of the saint.

  Cleo smiled then hurried down the hallway to the elevator so that she could meet Dr. King and that snappish police detective when they disembarked.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bodhi and Detective Williams passed the short ride from Big Pine Key to Golden Island above deck. She pointed out the ubiquitous mangrove stands lining the coasts of the islands they sped past and explained the tree’s affinity for saltwater. Some of the details were lost as the wind and the spray carried her voice away, but he heard enough to get the gist. From what he gathered, there were four species of mangroves in the Keys, with the red mangroves growing closest to the water.

  The combination of native pride and relaxed authority that crept into Detective Williams’s voice when she talked about the Florida Keys made her seem softer, almost friendly. But when the captain had docked the boat and an official-looking woman in flowing linen slacks and a jewel-colored silk blouse came clattering down the dock on cream-colored high heels, Detective Williams shifted back into her prickly and brusque persona as if she were putting on a sweater.

  The woman on the dock smiled widely and extended her hand before Bodhi had taken his first step off the boat.

  “Dr. King, we’re so glad you decided to come. I’m Cleo Clarkson. I’m the director of resident life here, which makes me the senior administrator in charge of Golden Shores.”

  She completely disregarded Detective Williams.

  The slight apparently hadn’t escaped Detective Williams’s notice either. “You’re doing a heckuva job at it.”

  Cleo Clarkson turned and said in an offhand voice, “Oh, I didn’t notice you there, detective.”

  Detective Williams was stone-faced, but her entire body seemed to shimmer with resentment.

  As the three of them made their way from the dock to a wide, paved path lined with seashells and riotously blooming tropical flowers on both sides, the director pointed out amenities ranging from the nine-hole executive golf course to the pickleball court to a lap pool.

  “As you can see we offer a full complement of activities.”

  “Do they get much use?” Bodhi asked.

  “Of course. Golden Shores offers a complete array of senior living options—from cottages for our independent living community members to assisted living apartments to suites in the skilled nursing care facility, or as people insist on calling it, the nursing home.”

  “I see. I wasn’t aware there were so many levels of care here.”

  “Likely because the deaths have all occurred in the assisted care facility. The guests who stay there may need help with some tasks or require daily medications. Or they may just prefer the social aspects of the facility to living alone. We provide light nursing care and cleaning services along with a full-service restaurant and shuttle service throughout the Keys. But there’s not the level of medical care there that we have in the skilled nursing care building,” she explained.

  So the death cluster was centered in a community within a community.

  He gazed around at the sparkling blue water that surrounded the campus. “It’s just so hard to imagine an entire island for a retirement community.”

  She seemed to stiffen almost imperceptibly. But he must have imagined it, because when she spoke her voice had the same cheerful, professional tour guide timbre.

  “I suppose it’s not typical. But then nothing about Golden Island is typical. The island isn’t just home to the Golden Shores campus. There’s the church, of course. And there are other buildings that support the church in its mission, including an event center for the use of the congregation, which we also allow outside groups to rent.”

  “By ‘event center’, she means stadium,” Detective Williams interjected. “Or would you call it an arena, Ms. Clarkson?”

  “It’s quite a large venue,” she allowed.

  “It must be very expensive to live here.”

  “Actually, no. Because the church is a non-profit entity and Golden Shores is an arm of its ministry, we’re able to keep the fees down. It’s elegant and beautiful, but it’s within the reach of most of the residents of the Keys.” She met Bodhi’s eyes, “I’d be happy to give you a personal tour of the entire island and all of its buildings, if you’re interested, Dr. King.”

  “Please, call me Bodhi.”

  She flashed a dazzling smile. “ Only if you call me Cleo.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Beside him, Detective Williams snorted softly. Then she changed the subject from the amenities available to residents of Golden Shores to the deaths that had plagued it.

  “We’ve just come from the Medical Examiner’s Office. He’s finishing up the autopsy of Mr. Garcia.”

  At the mention of the dead man—or perhaps the autopsy itself—Cleo paled slightly under her tan. “Oh?”

  “Yes. And according to Dr. Ashland, Mr. Garcia died in a very similar manner to the other cases. No obvious signs of trauma or physical evidence to suggest that death was anything other than the result of natural causes, except of course for the rictus grin,” Bodhi explained.

  “Rictus grin. So that’s the official name for that death mask of horror,” she said in a soft voice more to herself than to them.

  “Yes. And from what I know so far, I’d say you definitely have a SUD cluster.”

  “SUD?” she repeated blankly.

  “Sudden unexpected death.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, as I said we’re very glad you’re here. You seem to be the preeminent expert in clusters of, um, SUD. It would be helpful for me to know what I can do to support you in your efforts.” She was all pleasant business again, slipping into her efficient, charming armor as effortlessly as Detective Williams slipped into her cold, brisk armor.

  Cleo stopped and waved an identification card in front of a reader, and a pair of gleaming golden doors swung open sl
owly.

  As they stepped into the cool, brightly lit lobby, Bodhi said, “Why don’t I start by explaining the best practice for investigating a SUD cluster.”

  “Wait—is there a definition of a cluster?” Cleo asked.

  It was an insightful question—particularly coming from a layperson.

  “The particular parameters will vary among researchers, but a cluster refers to some number of deaths that are close in time and space and have no apparent explanation.”

  “Exactly what we have here,” Detective Williams noted.

  “Right. And I’m guessing once Dr. Ashland mentioned the possibility of a death cluster, my name came up.” The phenomenon was sufficiently rare that an internet search would have led straight to him.

  “Yes,” Cleo confirmed. Detective Williams nodded her agreement.

  “So my recommendation is to undertake a field investigation to uncover commonalities among the deceased. In this case, I’ll interview the other residents and your staff members to find out if all the dead had the same dietary habits or engaged in the same hobby. Had they all been exposed to the same viral or bacterial pathogen? Or maybe they were physically intimate with one another. These are just examples, of course. But by asking the right questions, a pattern will emerge.”

  Cleo gave a small, nervous laugh. “Our guests are adults. So if they choose to be physically intimate, that’s their own business. It’s not the sort of thing we would track.”

  “I understand. But they’re adults living in close proximity. I imagine much like a college dormitory, there will be whispers up and down the hall. If there were any relationships among the deceased, someone will know.”

  “Maybe,” she allowed.

  “Actually, I’ve been told that Mr. Garcia and Esmeralda Morales were romantically involved,” Detective Williams offered.

  “Really?”

  Cleo seemed mildly surprised that she wasn’t already privy to this morsel of gossip but not particularly surprised, either.

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Detective Williams repeated without divulging any details about the information or how she came to possess it.

  “Hmm. That may well be, but I can assure you that all five of them were not involved with one another. While I’m not naïve enough to think that none of our guests are sexually active, we are a church-affiliated center. It’s not exactly a place where swinging singles would choose to live out their golden years.”

  It seemed important to move her off the subject of amorous entanglements among the residents. “Again, that’s just one example. It may also turn out that the SUD cluster wasn’t caused by an environmental condition, but by a shared genetic mutation specific to the ethnicity of the dead.”

  “The deceased were all Cuban-Americans,” Detective Williams reminded them.

  “I checked our demographic data. Cuban-Americans make up just under thirty percent of our guests, across our properties. Another ten percent are either African-American or Afro-Cuban. We have a handful of Asian-Americans. And the rest are white.”

  “Do those percentages hold specifically in the assisted living facility?” Bodhi asked.

  Cleo thought for a moment. “More or less. Given the percentages, would you expect to see some other races dying if it weren’t a genetic thing?” she asked.

  “I can’t say either way just yet. The pathology results should be helpful in teasing out any genetic conditions, though.” Then he had a thought. “Although I would like to review whatever medical records you have for the dead to see if they’ve had any past health concerns in common.”

  Cleo scrunched up her nose while she considered the request. “I suppose I could let you see them here on site. There would be privacy issues if I let you take them out of the building.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” he assured her.

  She uncapped her pen and wrote a note to herself in flowing script in a small notebook she produced from her pocket.

  “I’ll pull their intake records and any updates to the files that may have come from our in-house medical team. Now, about these interviews you want to do with guests and employees.” She paused to choose her words. “I’d like you take into account the fact that people are pretty shaken up. You’ll approach this delicately, right?”

  Detective Williams let out another muffled snort, which had the effect of drawing Cleo’s attention.

  “Did you have an idea to contribute, detective?” she asked in a slightly too-sweet voice.

  “I’m not sure how to kid glove the fact that people are paying good money to die here,” Detective Williams shot back. Her voice echoed off the white marble walls.

  Cleo glanced worriedly around the empty lobby.

  Before she could shush Detective Williams, the detective went on in a slightly less loud voice. “I want to talk to the employees before they meet with Dr. King.”

  “Why?”

  “If this turns into a criminal investigation, I want the first crack at persons of interest. And since I’ve asked for, and haven’t received, the results of background checks you’ve done on people you employ, I’m going to have to preemptively consider everyone a person of interest.” Her voice was hard.

  “I’m pulling that information together. I just need a few more days. I’ve been busy getting you the scheduling information you wanted,” the director answered in an icy voice of her own.

  “Does that mean you have it?”

  “Certainly. Unlike most hospitals, we don’t really rotate staff between daytime and nighttime schedules. So the same six nurses and twelve aides are always scheduled for the evening and overnight shifts. All eighteen employees have been working on at least one night when a guest has passed away.”

  Anticipating Detective Williams’s next question, she consulted her notebook and continued, “And of the eighteen, only three have been present during all the deaths—Nurse Eduardo Martinez and two aides, Philomena Pearl and Charlene Rivers.”

  Detective Williams’s face was unreadable but there was a warning in her voice. “Nobody talks to those three until I’m finished with them.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Felicia excused herself from the conversation with Bodhi and Floridian Barbie and raced up the nearest stairwell to the second floor, where the nursing supervisor sat. Her heart banged in her chest, but when she skidded to a stop in front of the glass-walled office, she willed herself to speak calmly.

  “Excuse me,” she said, craning her neck to peek inside the office.

  The supervisor on duty swiveled around in her chair slowly to look at her.

  Great. Felicia suppressed a groan. Jenny Mumma. Or, as the kids at school had called her, Jenny Moo-moo. Jenny was slow and plodding. Thorough. Which in itself wasn’t a bad thing, but there was just something bovine about her large brown eyes, as though she were secretly thinking about cud.

  Rationally, Felicia knew Jenny hadn’t risen to her position as charge nurse by being stupid or ineffective, but she still wished she’d found someone—anyone—else sitting behind the desk. Because she had an urgent situation on her hands, and Jenny wasn’t the type to jump.

  “What do you need, Felicia?” Jenny said in her slow drawl, which did nothing to detract from the impression that she was lazy.

  “I need to know if Eduardo is scheduled to work tonight.”

  Unfazed by the urgency in Felicia’s voice, Jenny methodically sifted through the documents on her desk until she found a schedule book. She paged through it one sheet at a time. Finally, she stopped turning the pages and stared down at a grid in silence.

  To keep from screaming for Jenny to hurry up, Felicia fisted her hands and dug her fingernails into her palms. She breathed through her nose.

  After an interminable delay, Jenny looked up. “Yep, Nurse Martinez is scheduled to work the six to six shift.” She swiveled her head toward the clock hanging in the hallway and then back to Felicia with a languid motion. “He won’t be here for another two hours or so,” she adde
d as if Felicia couldn’t tell time.

  “Thanks, Jenny.”

  She raced away from the office and ducked into the first empty room she found. She whipped out her cell phone, pulled up her contact list, and tapped out a quick text telling Ed she needed to speak to him ASAP. Then she stowed her phone back in her pocket and just stood there, feeling defeated and useless.

  She knew Ed wasn’t responsible for anyone’s death. She knew it as a detective. And she knew it as a friend. But she also knew that right now all signs pointed to Ed, and there was a good chance he’d be blamed—whether that meant he’d be fired, sued, or arrested, she didn’t know. She just knew she had to help him.

  Adrenaline rushed through her nervous system, making it hard for her to think.

  Stay cool, she ordered herself. The way to help Ed was to rule him out as a suspect. Until she could speak to him, she’d have to work on ruling someone else in as a suspect.

  She unfolded the sheet of notepaper that Cleo Clarkson had given her and read the names written in Cleo’s perfect penmanship. In addition to Ed’s name, she’d identified Philomena Pearl and Charlene Rivers. The aides. She’d start there.

  The act of devising a plan stilled the anxiety that swirled in her stomach and propelled her forward with purpose.

  She strode back to Jenny’s office and waited while Jenny painstakingly filled out some form.

  After taking a few moments to review her handiwork, Jenny looked up. “You need something else, Felicia?”

  “Well, Nurse Mumma,” Felicia said in her friendliest voice, “I’m wondering if you could tell me anything about two of the aides who work the overnight shift?”

  “I’m sure I could.”

  “Great. I’m interested in Philomena Pearl and Charlene Rivers.”

  Something close to alertness or interest sparked in Jenny’s indolent eyes. “Oh, the true believers. They’re both scheduled to work tonight, too.”