by Ray Flynt
Or the stairwell. “What color was the cap?”
“Navy blue, with a double white stripe.”
“She witnessed the man who committed the murder!” Mrs. Baker crowed. Maury Povich couldn’t have sounded more convinced. I wasn’t.
“I don’t know…” Amanda said. “I didn’t give my observations a second thought until later in the day when I heard that a patient had died in the room next to mine. I may have let my imagination run wild.”
I nodded. The last thing Brad and I needed was panic among the patients on the seventh floor. “We don’t know for sure that there was a murder.”
“Yes we do,” Mrs. Baker insisted. “I’ve heard the nurses talk about it.”
I ignored my roommate and faced Amanda. “Did you tell anyone what you saw?”
Amanda, who had been looking sheepish, brightened. “Yes. I told Mrs. Baker.”
I meant other than Miss Marple here? “Did you let the nurses know?”
She shook her head, looking exhausted by the conversation.
“I appreciate you talking with us.” I stood and braced the walker for Amanda as she struggled out of her chair.
“I better get back to bed.” She turned toward the doorway. “Nice to meet you, Sharon.” I watched as Amanda baby-stepped her way toward the hall.
“See, I told you the witch knew,” Mrs. Baker said, punctuated with a humph.
How can I put this nicely? “Her name is Witchert.” I emphasized the two syllables. “Amanda Witchert.” She wasn’t on trial in Salem, I wanted to add.
I raised my hand in one final wave goodbye to Amanda, and she motioned urgently for me to join her in the hallway. When I stood next to her, she pointed in the direction of the sunroom and whispered, “There he is now.”
I saw a man about Brad’s height with his back toward us. He wore denim coveralls and a blue and white knit cap. “Thanks.”
I decided to go talk to the man myself, but wanted to alert Brad to this development, and quickly returned to the room and retrieved my cell phone from the bed table tray. I called Brad, but it went into voice mail, and I left him a brief message before venturing into the hallway in search of the man in the blue knit cap. I had him in my sights and had taken four steps, when I heard a crash in my room. I quickly returned to see my roommate’s empty water pitcher rattling on the floor, and Mrs. Baker’s innocent-looking face staring at me. “What’s going on?” she asked, pointing toward the hall.
I was about to ask you the same question. “Nothing, really.” I explained, “Amanda spotted the man again.”
“What?” she yelped. My roommate flailed in the bed and propped herself up on her elbows. If I didn’t know better, we were about to see the most amazing rise out of a bed since Lazarus. I never saw Mrs. Baker hit the call button, but hit it she must, because moments later Crystal Himes materialized in our doorway.
On seeing Crystal, Mrs. Baker went crazy, and kept screaming, “The murderer is out there. He’s out there.”
Crystal stood next to her bed, all the while saying, “Mrs. Baker, calm down. Calm down, or I’ll have to call security.” Crystal shot me an angry look, and all I could do was shrug.
If there was a murderer in the hall, he had no doubt made his escape during her commotion.
Crystal’s face flushed as she struggled to restrain a feisty Mrs. Baker, who, in the end, was no match for the bigger and younger woman. Pedro Paez entered the room. “Good. You stay with her,” Crystal ordered. She headed in the direction of the nurses’ station.
I tried once more to raise Brad on his cell phone. I got voice mail, and didn’t even bother to leave a message. The storm must have affected his signal.
Pedro tried a different approach. “You know,” he said, with a Latino accent that made it sound like the capital of Alaska, “If you don’t calm down, Crystal will give you a shot that make you sleep. Then you won’t be able to watch what’s going on.” He had her pegged.
She stopped thrashing around long enough to consider Pedro’s bit of wisdom.
Crystal Himes returned, accompanied by Ed Carlton, the hospital’s security chief. Carlton flashed me that what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here look, and then gave me a head-to-toe glance and smirked. Turning to Mrs. Baker, he asked, “What’s the problem?”
Without hesitation, Mrs. Baker pointed at me, and said, “You tell ‘em.”
Thank you, Mrs. Baker. I won’t be friending you on Facebook anytime soon.
I summarized for Carlton—and Crystal and Pedro—Amanda’s visit, her tale of spotting the man with the blue and white knit cap near Michael Severn’s room the previous morning, and of seeing him again minutes earlier in the hallway.
“This hallway?” Carlton aimed a finger over his shoulder.
I nodded.
“Show me.”
The nurses parted, and I followed the security chief into the hallway. Amanda was nowhere to be seen, but midway down the hall, I saw the same man she had indicated swabbing the floor. This time he faced us, and I saw he was African-American. He dipped his mop into a bucket, rung out the excess water, and attacked another area of the floor.
“I’ll take it from here,” Carlton said, and marched down the hall in the man’s direction.
The nurses drifted out of the room after us, and we all stared to see what Carlton would do next. “That’s Harold,” I heard Crystal say.
“I better tell Iola,” Pedro said.
Crystal shook her head. “No, don’t.” But Pedro had already scurried off to find Nurse Iola.
I turned to Crystal. “Why does he want to find Iola?”
“Harold Tangiere is Iola’s husband.” That explained the ‘T’ on Iola T’s name badge. “I better get back to the station.” She trudged down the hall.
Carlton wouldn’t appreciate me getting too close, but I inched down the hallway to get a better look. Carlton approached the man and flashed his ID. The janitor reached inside the neck of his coveralls and fished out what I surmised was his own hospital ID attached to a lanyard. Carlton spoke briefly. Damn, I wish I could hear what they were saying. Then Harold stowed his mop and bucket in the janitor’s closet Amanda had referenced. If Harold thought he was a suspect in a murder investigation, he didn’t act like it. He calmly rejoined Carlton. They walked past me—Carlton gave me no notice—and receded toward the elevators.
A scream pierced the hallway. “No. No,” Iola T. yelled as she rounded the corner and met up with Carlton and her husband just as they punched the button to call the elevator. “Let him go. He didn’t do anything.” I could only imagine what Pedro might have said when he located Iola, but I suspected he shared most of my telling of Amanda’s story and that her husband was a potential murder suspect.
Carlton spoke, so calmly, that I couldn’t hear. I can’t just stand here.
I moved closer to the action, just as Iola started pulling her husband away from the security chief. Crystal, Keith Blanton, and Pedro Paez watched in shock.
Harold tried to calm his wife. “It’s okay,” he said in a soothing baritone, “nothing’s going to happen to me. He just wants to ask a few questions.”
“Which one of you is the charge nurse?” Carlton sounded exasperated.
Crystal stepped to the front of the counter and grabbed Iola by the arm. “Iola if you don’t stop this, I’ll have to suspend you.”
Iola froze, apparently considering the consequences.
The doors opened and Carlton quickly guided Harold onto the elevator. Iola bolted from Crystal’s grasp and screamed, “No. No. No!” She pounded her fist against the now closed elevator doors.
I walked back to my room, where I mercifully found Mrs. Baker sleeping. I flopped on my bed and sighed, still trying to digest all that had happened in the last hour.
Seconds later Brad Frame entered the room carrying a star-shaped helium-filled balloon emblazoned with Get Well Soon. “Did you have a good nap?”
I laughed. Don’t get me started!
Chap
ter Twenty-Two
10:32 a.m., Thursday, January 11th
Brad Frame retraced his steps from Oncology to the hospital’s main lobby. He checked his cell phone for messages and there were none. Before returning to Sharon’s room, he stopped in the gift shop hoping to find a small bouquet of carnations. A refrigerated case held two arrangements—an elaborate tropical design crowned with birds of paradise, and a crystal bowl brimming over with red roses and baby’s breath. Sharon would get the wrong idea with the roses. He pictured the birds of paradise on her tray table, concluding they would obstruct her view. A vase on the bottom shelf of the cooler held only a single yellow rose whose petals had begun to wilt and turn brown. He only needed a token that expressed his thanks for her working extra-long hours and tackling the special assignment on the 7th floor, but these were slim pickings.
A woman called from behind the counter. “Can I help you find something in particular?”
“Just looking for… a gift for a patient.”
“How ‘bout one of these?” The clerk pointed to a cloud of helium-filled Mylar balloons hovering several feet above the sales desk.
Brad spotted a star-shaped one with “Get Well Soon” printed in red, white and blue; on the opposite side were images of Philadelphia, including the Liberty Bell, Betsy Ross sewing a flag, a silhouette of Ben Franklin, and a pretzel. That’ll put a smile on her face. “I’ll take this one.”
Brad paid for the balloon. The clerk loosened the blue ribbon from its base and handed it to him.
Brad wrapped the ribbon around his left index finger and headed for the elevator until the scent of freshly cooked bacon stopped him in his tracks. He hadn’t had anything to eat since a Snickers bar the previous evening, and a civilized person should have a one-cup limit on vending machine coffee. With the prospect of food and fresh coffee beckoning, he followed his nose down the hall to the hospital’s cafeteria. He glanced at his watch, noted that it was after 10:30 a.m., and hoped he could still get breakfast. But he’d smelled bacon, hadn’t he?
He grabbed a tray and eagerly eyed the pans of eggs, hash browns, bacon, sausage and accompaniments behind the counter.
“What’ll’ya’have?” An African-American woman gave him a gap-toothed grin. Her hair was covered with a gauzy white net, and she wore an apron with Dailey’s Rescue Mission imprinted on the front. Jacob Dailey had founded the nonprofit organization ten years earlier to provide jobs to the homeless—in catering, house cleaning, and a downtown car wash—and then partnered with Travelers Aid Family Services to find his clients affordable long-term housing. Brad’s family foundation had initially staked the entrepreneurial venture with a $25,000 grant, and now their breakfast was about to rescue him—from hunger. Time to send another donation.
Noting scrambled eggs in two different shades of yellow, he asked, “What’s the difference in the eggs?”
“One has cheddar cheese. Other one pepper jack.”
“Give me the pepper jack.” He hoped they wouldn’t be too spicy. “And I’ll take two slices of bacon.”
Brad slid his tray along the counter, and she filled his plate, including a dollop of corned-beef hash that he hadn’t tasted in years.
He grabbed a large ceramic mug—a refreshing change from the Styrofoam cups he’d drunk from overnight—and placed it under the container marked Colombian dark roast, then snapped open the spigot. Next to him a young woman filled a self-serve soda machine with a bucket of ice. She brushed against the damp bucket, which created Rorschach-like stains where her breasts strained against her gray T-shirt, and he couldn’t help but stare. As hot coffee sloshed over the top of his mug and onto his fingers, his mind quickly returned to the task at hand. He shut the spigot, poured excess coffee into the overflow tray of the soda machine, and wiped his hand on a napkin.
A quick swipe of his American Express card and his hunger would soon be abated.
The balloon bobbed with every step as Brad searched for a table. He noticed Alan Fenimore seated near the window, but he was talking with another man, and Brad didn’t want to disturb them. Alan motioned for Brad to join their table. As he got close, Brad could see the other man was Alan’s son Ken. He sensed a frostiness in the air, and not just because of their proximity to the window.
“Good morning.” Brad set his tray down next to Alan’s, which held a cup of tea and a half-eaten carton of raspberry yogurt. Both men greeted him, and then the table fell eerily silent. Ken, in particular, spent most of his time gazing into his coffee cup. Brad recalled Ken saying he was diabetic, and wondered if he should have had food in addition to the coffee. In the silence, Brad tied Sharon’s balloon to the back of his chair.
Brad took his seat. “I see you made it safely back this morning, Ken.”
“No. I never got home last night. I managed to slog my way to the subway station, but the Market Street line was shut down. So I came back and spent the night in my office.” Brad wondered where he’d been coming from when he saw him on the security camera shortly after 6:30 a.m.
“Which is what I told him he should have done in the first place,” Alan added.
Ken Fenimore audibly exhaled.
Brad savored the first sip of his coffee and dug into the eggs. Their disagreement wouldn’t spoil his breakfast.
“I see your palate still takes to diner-style cuisine.”
“It’s good,” Brad mumbled after biting off a piece of the bacon.
“I’m a heart surgeon, remember,” Alan said. “Keep eating food like that, and you’ll run the risk of coronary artery disease by the time you’re fifty.”
Brad knew the truth in that statement, but remembered his grandfather bragged of eating two eggs with bacon every morning of his life, and he’d lived to be ninety-three. We all have to go sometime, Brad almost said, but thought better of it.
Ken pivoted in his seat and stared at the ice crystals battering the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window. Outside, an ambulance with red lights flashing, but siren silenced, rumbled by on the snow-covered street.
Looking at Ken—with his resemblance to Alan at a young age—transported Brad back twenty-six years to their days together at Princeton. For an instant he pictured himself sitting across from Alan and Marie on a Wednesday night at their favorite haunt, munching on chili dogs and fried mushrooms—loaded with grease—washed down with a chocolate milkshake. None of them gave any thought about coronary artery disease back then. In fact, they didn’t have a worry in the world.
“What was the name of that greasy spoon in Princeton where we went for dinner almost every Wednesday night?
Alan shrugged. “Harry’s?”
“Nah. I think that was the name of the waiter.”
“Did you and dad have wild times back in the old days?” Ken asked, more to join the conversation than with any real interest in his voice.
Brad found it difficult to think of the 1980’s as ‘the old days.’
Alan answered before Brad could. “Your mother kept us in line.”
Brad laughed. “Most of the time. She could get a little wild herself.”
Alan smiled, seemingly for the first time in two days, and it took ten years off his appearance.
Brad savored a bite of the hash and washed it down with a gulp of the coffee. “By the way, Alan, I just visited Oncology…”
Alan began a hacking cough and flashed a dark look at Brad.
“Are you okay, dad?” Ken looked concerned. “You should see one of your colleagues about that cough. I think it’s getting worse.”
Alan took a sip of his tea, then said, noncommittally, “Maybe I will.”
“I better go.” Ken cupped his hand to his ear. “Audit prep is calling.” He gulped the last of his coffee, and pushed back his chair.
“Hold on.” Alan groped in his pocket and extracted a cell phone, then slid it across the table toward Ken. “Thanks for letting me borrow it. I finally got mine charged.”
“No problem,” he said, adding wryly, “Let’s do
this again at happy hour. Good to see you, Mr. Frame.”
The mister designation, coupled with the lack of sleep in the past forty-hours, made Brad feel old.
They both watched as Ken left the cafeteria, and once more Brad marveled at how the younger man’s gait matched that of his father from years gone by. When Ken reached the hallway, Brad said, “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you told him?”
“He’ll find out soon enough.”
“Look, it’s none of my bus—”
“That’s right. Stay out of it. He just lost his mother. She meant the world to him… to both of us.” Alan’s raised voice drew glances from others in the cafeteria, and he resorted to a hoarse whisper. “Emotionally, Ken is just like his mother. I always knew what Marie thought—good, bad, or indifferent. She couldn’t disguise her emotions, wore them on her sleeve, as they say. We’ve dealt with her death differently. He can’t stop talking about her, and the tragic circumstances of her death. My grieving has….” Alan stopped. He ran his tongue over his upper lip. “I’m dealing with it in a much more measured way.”
Brad remembered his conversation with Ken from the previous evening in which he bemoaned the fact that his father wasn’t communicating.
Alan’s hand started to shake, and when he grabbed his cup of tea it rattled in the saucer. Was this one of the side effects of his tumor the Oncology nurse had mentioned? Brad felt a vibration from his cell phone. He figured Sharon was calling, but she’d have to wait.
Brad turned to his friend. “Did you ever think that Ken might appreciate the chance to say goodbye?”
Alan blinked and pursed his lips.
When Alan didn’t respond right away, Brad continued, “Father/son relationships are tricky. First, there’s the competition thing, and then the macho thing. Men are ingrained to be strong. Probably genetically related to the time when men were the hunters; show weakness to your prey and you run the risk of becoming the hunted.” Alan looked stoic. Brad couldn’t tell if his points were hitting the mark. “I had seven years to say goodbye to my father after his stroke. In the later years, when he couldn’t talk I would sit by his bed and hold his hand and tell him I loved him. Occasionally I’d feel him squeeze my hand and I figured—hoped really—that he understood. But at least when he died, I was at peace with myself. You could give your son that gift.”
