Dead Spider

by Victoria Houston

  “He didn’t move a lot,” said Bruce. “I saw him shake hands and chat with people but he didn’t stand up or walk around except for that one ten-minute period when Doc said he had stopped over to chat with him. Otherwise the guy stayed put.

  “All I saw was the right side of his face as he would turn to talk to people going by,” said Osborne. “Wasn’t he shot behind the right ear?”

  “Let’s watch it again. There must be something,” said Bruce.

  “Okay, people,” said Patience walking to the front of the room to face them, the computer monitor above her to her right, “you have—every one of you—committed the cardinal sin: you watched for what you wanted to see.”

  “Geez Louise, of course we did,” said Lew.

  “Let me give you an example. What you did is similar to a management consultant going into a planning meeting between two different groups—say, emergency management and the health department—with each group having their own priorities, but your goal is to help them learn to work together.

  “If you go in with your questions and you get your questions answered, are you happy? Of course you are. You haven’t isolated the true quandary: The fact that emergency management is not communicating with the health department and vice versa. So, yes, you got both groups answering your questions. But no one noticed whether they were listening to each other. And if they don’t listen to one another, they cannot work together.”

  “How does that apply to this?” asked Lew. “I’m confused.”

  “We will watch this video again,” said Patience. “I want each of you to stop looking for a person with a gun or a man in a motorcycle jacket. This time, you jot down as fast as you can on the notepad that I am handing you only what you actually see—not what you expect to see, not what you hope to see. Just the reality: kids on tricycles, moms with diaper bags, someone blowing their nose—just detail, detail, detail. Make no assumptions.

  “If someone stops to chat with Chuck Pfeiffer, what do they look like? Do they laugh? Do they walk by more than once? Don’t watch Chuck, watch the crowd.”

  “What about staff or family in the booth?”

  “Everyone. We’ll watch this now and then I want your notes. We’ll meet again in the morning and we’ll talk. We may watch it all again or I may highlight certain sections or frames for us to review.”

  Lew’s cell rang. She listened and clicked off. “Sorry, have to go. That was Officer Todd Martin. There’s been a burglary at the Northern Lights Nursing Home. We’ll have to look at the video later or first thing in the morning. Doc, Bruce, do you mind coming with me? Todd said there’s been money, drugs, and guns stolen. He’s got thirty-four residents who say their rooms were broken into. I’ll need as much help as I can get.”

  “Guns? From a nursing home?” Bruce was astonished.

  As they hurried from the building, Osborne heard Ray invite Patience to dinner. He couldn’t hear her response.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When Osborne and Lew arrived at the nursing home, they found the residents gathered in the dining hall—all thirty-four, including seven in wheelchairs. Moving among them and taking notes was Officer Martin followed by the administrator, Elizabeth Herre.

  “Oh, Chief Ferris, I can’t believe this has happened,” said Elizabeth Herre. She looked like she was about to break into tears. “We have security locks on all our entrances—”

  “So someone broke in from outside—is that what happened?” asked Lew just as Todd Martin walked up. “Where exactly? We may be able to get fingerprints . . . ”

  “No, Chief, I’m afraid Mrs. Herre is wrong,” said Todd. “It was an inside job.” Bruce moved closer to hear what the young officer had to report. “Almost every apartment in the complex is missing something—loose cash, guns, medications. Whoever did it knew where to look, too.”

  “Really?” asked Lew. “How was that managed? How do you get thirty-four elderly people out of their rooms at the same time, for heaven’s sake?”

  “A group of high school kids gave a concert here this afternoon. It lasted two hours and everyone attended. Right, Mrs. Herre?”

  The woman nodded. “We hold these events once a month and they are very popular. But I’m sure Officer Martin is wrong. I can’t imagine anyone on our staff—”

  “Are we talking painkillers like morphine, OxyContin? Any of those stolen?” asked Bruce, butting in.

  “Oh yes,” said Todd. “Along with some Percocet and Percodan. Not good. Stolen from the small pharmacy they have here. Someone had a key to the cabinet holding those drugs.”

  “Only two people on my staff plus myself have keys,” said Elizabeth. “I just can’t imagine who could have done this.”

  Lew glanced over at Todd. “And what’s this about guns? How many guns are we talking about?”

  “Fifteen handguns, Chief. They’re missing Rugers, .357 Magnums, Sig Sauers, Glocks, you name it. Turns out a number of the people living here—and this is men and women—have been taking firearm training courses with follow-up target practice once a week at the Loon Lake Shooting Gallery.”

  “Are you kidding me? Why on earth?” asked Lew.

  A reedy female voice piped up: “Don’t you watch the news? You’ve got radicals, you’ve got crazies, you’ve got all these drug addicts breaking into people’s homes to steal their medicines. It’s an epidemic for goodness’ sakes. Didn’t you hear about the hospice center over in Minocqua that just got robbed of their drugs? Just because we’re old doesn’t mean we don’t want to be safe.

  “We knew this was going to happen,” she muttered.

  “Lot of good your guns did you,” said Bruce, making sure to walk away before the woman could respond.

  Osborne recognized the figure behind the voice: Harriet McClellan. A close friend if not a mentor of his late wife’s, he had forgotten she moved into a nursing home shortly before he retired. Geez Louise, he thought, Harriet must be nearly ninety years old. And while she had once been a statuesque five feet eight inches tall, now she was the size of a sparrow.

  “Why, Harriet McClellan,” said Osborne. “I had no idea you were living out here.”

  “Fifteen years, Paul, fifteen years. But I’m holding on,” she cackled as she tucked her shrunken body into an armchair that could have held three of her.

  He wasn’t surprised. She had never struck him as soft or weak. Quite the contrary: She was dry as a sheet of parchment and just as strong. After the untimely deaths of her husband and son as well as the loss of McClellan’s Sport Shop, she had managed to maintain a formidable presence in Loon Lake, serving for years as president of the Loon Lake Garden Club and rarely missing the weekly meetings of the by-invitation-only bridge club of which Osborne’s late wife had been proud to be a member.

  Aware that Lew, Bruce, and Todd were still busy questioning the residents as to what each had had stolen from their rooms or apartments, he hurried to catch up and do his share. Pulling out a notepad from his back pocket, he raised his pen and asked, “So, Harriet, can you tell me what was stolen from your apartment, please?”

  “Why would I tell you? You’re a dentist, Paul. I want to talk with that woman what’s-her-name.”

  “You mean police chief Lewellyn Ferris? Well, you certainly may but I’m also helping out at the moment and Chief Ferris appears to have her hands full.” He pointed toward Lew who was across the room and bent over talking to an elderly man who was also in a wheelchair. Unconvinced, Harriet gave him a hostile stare.

  Patiently (in the tone he had always used to explain to patients why the tooth needed to be extracted in order to avoid a severe infection) he explained how he had been deputized to help with the forensic odontology on previous cases and added, “So given Loon Lake has a small three-person police force—and I’m retired from my dental practice—I volunteer to be deputized and help out when they’re short-handed. As they are right now, Harriet. So do you mind answering my question?”

  “Well, alright,” she s
aid, holding her head to one side as if she smelled something bad. Osborne resisted a grin. Harriet might be old but she was haughty as ever. Her attitude reminded him of a comment one of his McDonald’s coffee crowd had made about her years ago: “You have to hand it to Harriet McClellan. That woman’s got an even disposition all right: Even when she laughs it’s at the expense of someone else.”

  “I had my bingo winnings in my top dresser drawer and that’s gone,” Harriet was saying in a grudging tone. “Twenty dollars—two bills. And my gun, which is a valuable antique. I’ve owned it for years. A gift from Bob before he died. Remember when those motorcycle hoods came through town? He wanted me to feel safe.

  “You remember my husband, Bob, and Martin, too, don’t you, Paul?”

  “Of course I do, Harriet, although Martin was a few years ahead of me.”

  “Well, Martin remembered you. I know. He often mentioned how you and your father were such good customers of our shop.” Her eyes got a distant look as she said, “Your father was such a lovely man. If only . . . ” Osborne did not want to hear where that thought was going.

  “Yes, I miss Dad, too, but, um, Harriet, can you describe the gun that was stolen?” He was determined to get her back on track as soon as possible.

  “Oh, it’s a lovely little handgun. One of those teeny ones you can carry in your purse. I would be so happy to have it back.”

  “Anything else taken besides the money and your gun?”

  “No. All I keep in my drawer beside the gun is my blood pressure medicine and whoever it is didn’t want that.”

  While she was talking, Osborne was experiencing a rush of sensations, none of them pleasant. The sound of her voice with its hint of superciliousness brought back memories of the mean-spirited comments Mary Lee would repeat after her bridge club gatherings: vicious gossip about other women in Loon Lake—many of them his patients—and always remarks that had originated with Harriet. More than once the gossip turned out to be false but that was after one of Harriet’s targets had been ostracized from future bridge games or garden club events.

  Equally disturbing was that even as he was surprised to run into Harriet at the nursing home, he was beginning to feel that he had recently seen her somewhere . . . but where?

  “Excuse me, Doc,” said Lew, who had appeared at his elbow. “Elizabeth has pulled the staff into her office and we need to take a few minutes with them. They may know something.”

  There were four nurses on duty at this time and they didn’t know much. “We were all watching the concert, too,” said a dark-haired woman. Her nametag indicated her name was Marcie. “Well, wait, I did see Wendy come out of a room down the hall. Not sure why she was there. I thought she was getting off early today.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Wendy,” said Elizabeth. She looked at Lew, “She’s a CNA on staff here. I would expect her to be checking on the rooms, it’s her job.”

  “And a CNA is what?” asked Bruce.

  “Certified nursing assistant.” Elizabeth lowered her voice, “I’m afraid we assign our CNAs a lot of the cleaning when needed. Not the most fun job in the building.”

  “Why isn’t she in this meeting right now?” asked Lew. “I asked you to have all the staff here.”

  “She’s off right now,” said Elizabeth. “Her shift ended at three. Do you want me to call her and have her come back? Otherwise, she’ll be in at six tomorrow morning.”

  “I guess that won’t be necessary,” said Lew, “but please have her call me when she gets in tomorrow morning. I want to be sure we’ve spoken with everyone who might have seen something today.”

  “Certainly,” said Elizabeth. “What time do you want her to call? If she’s here at six won’t that be a little early?”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll be in my office by then. Oh, one more question. Do any of your CNAs have keys to the drug cabinet?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Elizabeth. She looked around the room at the four women standing there. “No one besides myself, Marcie, and Jocelyn have keys to the drug cabinet. Right?”

  “Yes,” said the four simultaneously.

  “We keep that cabinet locked at all times,” said Marcie.

  “We’re all registered nurses,” said Elizabeth, “and that level of security is required in order to have in-house access to the drugs.”

  “I see. All right, everyone, thank you for your help. I want to give you this,” she said as she handed each a small piece of paper. “This has my cell phone number on it in case you think of something that may be of help. Please don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

  Driving back with Lew in the cruiser, Osborne puzzled over where he might have run into Harriet McClellan. They were pulling into the parking lot at the police department when it dawned on him: “Lewellyn, that elderly woman I was talking to, she’s in the video from the tournament—” His voice rose.

  “Doc,” said Lew, glancing over at him as she turned off the ignition, “settle down. That whole goddamn nursing home crowd is in the video. They were all sitting in the booth run by the Senior Center. Didn’t you notice?”

  “Oh.” He relaxed back against the seat. “Guess I was watching all the wrong people.”

  Lew reached over and patted his hand. She gave him an indulgent smile. “You’ll see tomorrow morning when we run through that video again. I think we’ll all be surprised at what we see this next time.”

  “Sure you’re right. Don’t suppose you would be interested in a pizza at my place later? It is Tuesday, you know.” They had fallen into a pattern of Tuesdays at his place, Thursdays and some Sundays at hers.

  She gave him a grin as she sat thinking. “Well, okay. I’ll be exhausted so if you don’t mind an early bed evening—”

  “Count on it,” he said, tired but pleased himself.

  They slept that night with all the windows open as the temperature dipped into the low sixties and made snuggling a must. Light breezes carried the soothing hoots of owls as the moon slipped silver beams through the spiky needles of the red pines guarding the shore.

  A cell phone rang in the dark. Osborne struggled up from a deep sleep not sure what he had heard but Lew was already on her phone. He heard her ask in a sleep-laden voice, “Marcie? What is it? No, yes, it’s late but that’s fine. Why are you calling?”

  Lew touched the speaker button so Osborne could hear.

  “I am so sorry, Chief Ferris. I thought I would get your voicemail. Why don’t I call back in the morning?”

  “Marcie, please, tell me why you’re calling.”

  “I remembered something after our meeting and I couldn’t sleep. It was a couple weeks ago and our CNA, Wendy Stevenson, asked if she could borrow my keys to get into the storage room at the back of the building. She had them for over an hour before I remembered to ask for them back. Chief Ferris, the key to the drug cabinet was on the ring with my other keys. And one of the keys is a master for the building. This has been bothering me all night . . . ”

  “I see,” said Lew. “You didn’t happen to notice if she left the building with your keys?”

  “No, I mean, I didn’t notice. I was caring for one of our residents who was recovering from a stroke that day so I didn’t pay attention. And, um, thing is that girl is weird. She has problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “I think she drinks or maybe she does drugs. I don’t know but she’s weird.”

  “Hmm, I am scheduled to talk with her first thing in the morning,” said Lew. “Given what you’re saying, I’ll stop out at the nursing home and meet with her in person.”

  “I’m probably wrong and being unfair,” said Marcie.

  “But it could be important information so thank you for calling, Marcie. Now get some sleep.”

  “You, too, Chief Ferris. And sorry to call so late.”

  Lew clicked off her phone and lay back in the bed, her body tense. “Do you need to get up?” asked Osborne. “Want some coffee?”

  “At three thirt
y in the morning? Not sure what good that’ll do. No, Doc, I’ll try to get some sleep.”

  “We’ll both try.” He slipped an arm across her shoulders and hoped the soft lapping of the lake against the shore would help her sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Beth hesitated before she sliced a banana into her cereal. Should she maybe go back to bed instead of the early morning practice she had been planning? It still bothered her that that creepy Pete had shown up at the tennis court yesterday morning. But Summer Sectionals were three days away and she was desperate to work on her serve.

  Shrugging, she went ahead and sliced the banana. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that she’d been so unfriendly to the guy he wouldn’t dare bug her again. No, she’d be fine. Plus she had been getting to the courts a little later than usual. If he did go by at the same time as yesterday, she wouldn’t be there.

  Happy with that thought, Beth wiped her hands, grabbed her tennis bag, and slipped out the front door without making a sound. As she walked down the street toward the path she liked to take across the courthouse green, Rich Gibbson, their next-door neighbor, was backing out of his driveway.

  “Hey, young lady, where are you off to?”

  “Hi, Mr. Gibbson, the tennis courts up at the high school.”

  “Well, jump on in and let me give you a ride.”

  “Thanks,” she gave him a big smile as she hopped in. Three minutes and a friendly chat later she was skipping toward the storage shed to get the hopper of tennis balls.

  A chipmunk skittered across the court behind her as Beth walked along gathering tennis balls into the hopper. It had been a good hour and she was happy with where her serve was going. Faster and harder, for sure. So long as she remembered to keep her left arm up, step back, and drop that racket head—