Retirement Can Be Murder

by Susan Santangelo

  Grace hesitated. “I came over today because I want to find out who’s responsible for his death. I want to see that person punished for it. As I see it, the best way for that to happen is for you and me to work together.

  Unless you did it, of course.”

  Ignoring Sheila’s expression of fury, Grace went on, “I also want to see the Retirement Survival Center succeed. I have a financial stake in it, too, in case you didn’t know that.”

  Sheila’s eyes opened wide. Clearly, this was news to her.

  Claire and I said nothing. We just listened.

  Sheila slowly nodded her head in agreement, then realized Claire and I were hanging on every word. “I hope you understand that the memorial service will have to be placed on hold until the police give us the go-ahead, Carol. The first thing I have to do is get this place cleaned up.”

  “The memorial service can easily be postponed.” Especially since I’d done absolutely nothing about it so far. I looked around the office. “This looks like my son Mike’s room when he was in high school,” I said, with a feeble attempt at humor. “If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s making order out of chaos. Years of practice with the kids. Just tell us where you want us to start, and Claire and I will get to work.”

  “Why don’t you two start shelving the books, and Grace and I can sort through the papers?” Sheila suggested.

  “At least the certificates on the walls weren’t touched,” said Claire, bending down to pick up a few text books. “Otherwise, we’d have to sweep up broken glass before we could do anything else.”

  “Umm,” I responded. I was concentrating on trying to read the diplomas on the wall behind the desk without my glasses. They were an impressive group, and I said so to Claire.

  Grace overheard us and started to laugh. “They’re not real diplomas, Carol,” she said.

  I looked at her stupidly. “Not real? You mean Dave never went to any of these schools?”

  “They’re not exactly phony, either,” Grace went on. “They’re ‘en-hanced.’ Do you know what I mean by that?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  Sheila jumped in to explain. “Dave did go to some of these schools.

  Of course, his name wasn’t Davis Rhodes then, so he had to change the name on the diplomas. And while he was at it, he also changed the degrees he earned. He never graduated ‘magna cum laude,’ and he never was valedictorian of his class. He never got a Ph.D. from Harvard either.

  It’s amazing what you can do with a computer and a good laser printer these days.”

  To me, there was a very fine line between “enhanced” and phony.

  Wait until I told Jim about this.

  “So where did he get his undergraduate degree from, Sheila?” Claire asked.

  “Dave used to kid about the name of that college. Called it P. U. But that wasn’t the real name, of course. It was some place in California, right Grace?”

  Grace started to answer, but before she could, Claire pulled a yearbook out of the pile of books on the floor. “Is this his? From Papermill University? Class of 1973?” She rummaged around on the floor. “There are some other yearbooks here from the same college, 1972 and 1975.”

  “That’s odd,” said Grace. “He graduated in 1974. If he kept all the other yearbooks, why wouldn’t he keep the one from his own class?”

  “Maybe he did,” I said slowly. There was an idea percolating in my mind that was so outrageous I was hesitant to voice it.

  I remembered hearing about Papermill University last night from Jenny. Supposedly, it was Linda Burns’s alma mater too.

  Another coincidence? I didn’t think so.

  “I bet Davis kept his own class yearbook on a bookshelf with all the others,” I said slowly. “That’s what the burglar broke in to steal.”

  Sheila looked at me like I was crazy. “Come on. Why would anyone want an old college yearbook? Because his picture was terrible?”

  I realized I shouldn’t say any more. Not to Sheila and Grace. Claire and I could hash this over—and over—on the way home.

  “Don’t tell me this is a coincidence, too,” I said as soon as Claire and I were safely back in her car. “I knew there had to be a connection between Linda Burns and Davis Rhodes, and I finally found it. They went to college together.”

  “Don’t go off half-cocked about this,” Claire replied, immediately throwing cold water on my carefully thought-out theory. “You think Linda went to the same college. You’re guessing they were in the same class and graduated at the same time. You’re supposing that’s the link between them. But once again, there’s no proof. And even if there were proof, what’s Linda’s motive for getting rid of Rhodes? Since when is being college classmates a motive for murder?”

  I sucked in my breath and considered what Claire was saying. She did make some good points. But I had a strong hunch that I was right. This was the link between Linda Burns and Davis Rhodes I’d been looking for, and once I had verified their class and graduation dates, I was going to keep right on digging until I proved that Linda had a motive to eliminate Rhodes. And then I’d call Mark Anderson and tell him what I’d discovered. Boy, would he be impressed.

  But Claire wasn’t finished with me quite yet. “Something else occurred to me about Linda Burns.” She glanced sideways at me to be sure she had my attention. “This is going to sound harsh, and I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I wonder how objective you’re being about her.

  What I mean is, how would you react if you suspected me, or Nancy, or Mary Alice of causing Rhodes’s death and framing Jim, instead of Linda?

  Would you go to these lengths to get evidence on any of us?”

  “That’s a ridiculous thing to say,” I responded heatedly. “You’re my dearest friends, and I love you all. I’d never believe that any of you would do those awful things. That’s just crazy.”

  “My point exactly. We’re your friends. Linda isn’t. Face it, you’ve never liked her. Ok, I admit that none of us have ever liked her. But in all fairness, I’m just pointing out that you’re being a lot quicker to think the worst about Linda than you would be if you suspected any of us. You’re not being objective about her at all.

  “Be very careful, Carol. In case you’re wrong.”

  I had no smart aleck response for Claire. She was accusing me of unfairly suspecting Linda, and of doing everything I could to find evidence against her.

  Some friend.

  I was so hurt at what she’d said to me that I didn’t respond at all. I just clamped my lips together tightly; we rode the rest of the way back in complete silence.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  It’s sad, but true, that when some people decide to retire, nobody knows the difference.

  When Claire dropped me off, she reached over and gave my hand a little pat. Wisely, she said nothing more. She could tell I was upset and would have to work through her criticisms on my own. She also knew that being honest with each other is one of the most valuable things about a friendship like ours, and whatever happened, we would still be close.

  Even if I thought her comments were completely out of line and unfair.

  I wouldn’t say I slammed Claire’s car door when I got out. But I didn’t make any effort to be gentle closing it, either. Ok, call me childish.

  When I finally got into the blessed coolness of my air-conditioned house, Lucy and Ethel raced up to greet me, vying with each other as to which would be the first to jump up and give me those wonderful sloppy doggy kisses. That’s the great thing about dogs. They’re totally non-judg-mental. Who could resist a relationship like that, so full of unconditional love?

  While the dogs went for a quick run around the yard, I stewed over Claire’s accusation. One of the personality traits I hate the most about myself is that I absolutely, positively, cannot take criticism of any kind. I brood about it, worry about it, and as a result I become paralyzed with inactivity and filled w
ith self-pity and self-doubt. Pretty pathetic, right? I could feel myself starting down that road, and I decided that I was not going to allow myself to go there.

  So, when my favorite two canine therapists came back into the house, I bribed them with a doggy treat and sat them both down in front of me.

  “Listen, girls, you’ll never believe what our friend Claire said to me this afternoon.” I described the entire scenario, trying hard to be objective about it so as not to prejudice their opinion. I ended with, “What do you think, kids? Am I trying to get incriminating information about Linda Burns just because I don’t like her?”

  The two dogs looked at me with sorrowful eyes, and clearly communicated their feelings to me. “How can anyone accuse you of something that is so completely untrue? You are the most unbiased, loving human we know. You just keep right on snooping and find out everything you can about Linda Burns. We’re sure you’re on the right track. Claire, as much as we love her, is way off base here.”

  Swear to God, that’s what they told me.

  I felt a little better, but not my usual energetic self. I was still brooding over Claire’s accusation when the dogs began barking, announcing the arrival of the mailman.

  Right on the top of the pile of bills and junk mail was a reminder from our vet, Dr. Karen Ross.

  Dear Lucy and Ethel: We know you don’t like to get shots, but your rabies and distemper boosters are due this month. Please have your human call our office for an appointment. And don’t worry! The shots won’t hurt a bit!

  Your Friend, Dr. Karen

  “All right, I’m going to call the vet’s office right now and make the appointment for your shots,” I informed the dogs. “And don’t start sulking the way you always do when you hear the word ‘vet.’” True to form, the dogs had begun backing away from me and heading for the safety of the family room.

  “You can run but you can’t hide,” I told them both. “And just for that, I won’t tell you in advance when your appointment is. It’ll be a complete surprise.”

  Fortunately, when I called, I wasn’t put on hold, for once. And my favorite receptionist, Patty, answered the phone. In no time at all, once she determined there was no canine emergency—we’ve had our share of those over the years—she cheerfully scheduled the dogs’ shots for the following Tuesday morning. Then she asked, “Does Lucy need any more pills for her thyroid, Mrs. Andrews, or do you have enough for now?”

  While I assured her that we had plenty of pills for Lucy, I suddenly remembered that little blue bottle of Enalapril that Mark Anderson had found tucked away in our medicine cabinet. Who better to ask about that than Patty? And who better to tell me if Linda Burns had taken her critically ill dog to Dr. Karen for treatment?

  “Patty, just one more question before I go.” I laughed a little. “Have you ever heard of Enalapril?”

  “Of course,” she replied. “It’s prescribed for high blood pressure. We use it often to treat dogs with heart problems. Why?”

  I pretended I didn’t hear her ask me why I wanted to know about Enalpril and plunged ahead.

  “I was kidding when I said I had only one more question, Patty. I really have a few more. If you have the time. Do all vets fill prescriptions in little blue bottles these days? I know Lucy’s thyroid medicine is in a blue bottle, and I wondered if that was common practice among vets?”

  “You’re piquing my curiosity, Mrs. Andrews. Yes, we do fill all our prescriptions in blue bottles. Why do you want to know?”

  All of a sudden, I could hear that pesky beep on my phone line, indicating another caller was trying to get through. I couldn’t take the chance that Patty might hang up, so I ignored it.

  “My daughter Jenny is doing a research paper on drugs,” I lied, “and she asked me to find out for her.

  “I’m wondering how far back you keep your client records,” I continued. I could hear other phone lines ringing in the background. I felt guilty about taking up so much of Patty’s time, but I wasn’t giving up now.

  “We keep our client records in a database that goes back five years,” she answered. “When an animal dies, their records go into an inactive file, but we still keep them for five years. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous to keep them that long, but that’s the way Karen wants it. And she’s the boss.”

  “Patty, you’ve been so helpful. I can’t thank you enough,” I gushed.

  “You know, all my friends use your office for their pets. I always recommend you. Whether you realize it or not, Claire McGee, Nancy Green, Mary Alice Brennan, Linda Burns, all of them came to you on my say-so.

  I’m your number one salesperson.”

  I held my breath. Would she say something about Linda? Or was I wrong? Maybe Linda had used a completely different vet three years ago when her dog was so sick.

  Patty took the bait. “That was such a sad thing. We try hard not to get involved personally with our clients, but in this case, it was just heart-breaking.” She paused, just long enough for me to know that she was dying to tell me more if I asked her to.

  “Do you mean Linda Burns’s dog?” I inquired as innocently as I could. “I know she died very young, and I heard Linda did everything possible to save her.”

  “She did,” confirmed Patty. “We all did. But Muffin’s heart just gave out, poor little thing. Even with the special diet and the drugs she was on.” She paused. “It’s funny you should be asking about Enalapril, Mrs. Andrews. I remember that’s one of the drugs Muffin was taking.”

  So, I’d found out that Linda Burns had access to the drug Enalapril.

  I speculated that when her dog died, it was very possible that there were unused pills left over, and Linda didn’t throw them away. Instead, she probably put the bottle away and forgot about it. Until recently. When she found another use for those pills, eliminating Davis Rhodes. Linda could have easily put the bottle in our medicine cabinet when she went upstairs to wash her hands a few nights ago. This was pure conjecture on my part, but it made sense. Sounded like a strong case against Linda to me.

  No one in our family, canine or human, had ever been prescribed that drug. That could be proved by physician and veterinary records. One point for our side.

  I sighed. I hated to admit it, but Claire was right. My so-called “case” against Linda was based completely on guesses and suppositions, with a few stray facts thrown in just for the heck of it. Circumstantial evidence.

  Before anyone would take me seriously, I had to confirm the possible link, that they were college classmates. Did I also need to prove that Linda had seen Rhodes when he moved into the area? And discover a motive for her eliminating Rhodes? No, this last part was definitely a job for the police. After all, I had to leave something for them to do.

  Means, motive, opportunity. The big three in every mystery story I’d ever read.

  I thought back to my visit to the Retirement Survival Center earlier this afternoon. The new alliance between Sheila and Grace was certainly peculiar. And surprising. Had they suddenly banded together to cover up for each other? Or had they been working together all along? Could Grace have killed Rhodes and Sheila was blackmailing her? Or the other way around? Both of them appeared to have motives. Each of them had admitted arguing with Rhodes before he died. And they certainly had opportunity.

  I couldn’t ignore the fact that both of them would have intimate knowledge of any medication Rhodes was already taking. With easy access to the Internet, anyone could figure out what drug could cause a fatal interaction with current medication. I wasn’t sure about their access to Enalapril, but it was not impossible.

  My head was starting to hurt.

  Ok, here was another theory, even more far-fetched than the others.

  What if Linda, Grace, and Sheila were all in this together? Wasn’t there an Agatha Christie mystery about something like that, where more than one person was the murderer? Oh, Carol, you are really losing it now.

  Talk about a vivid imagination.

  I ha
d pretty convincing proof (to me, anyway) that Linda had anonymously given the police my cell phone, had access to the drug that killed Rhodes, and planted the drug in my medicine cabinet. Why would she go to all that trouble if she weren’t involved in Rhodes’s death?

  Means, motive and opportunity.

  I wondered if I should just quit investigating right now. Mark Anderson was convinced that Jim was being set up by someone. Hopefully, he’d managed to convince the powers-that-be at police headquarters of the same thing. And that should be the end of it, right? My family would be safe, and we could resume our normal lives again. It wasn’t up to me to solve the case. That was a job for the police.

  Then I remembered someone had tried to call me while I was talking to the vet’s office. It was Jenny.

  “Mom,” she whispered on the voice mail, “the degree I saw isn’t on her office wall any more. But I know I saw it there just a few days ago. I can’t figure out why that one is missing when all the other diplomas and awards are still there. And it looks like she’s starting to do some major redecorating. Gotta go.”

  I sat down on the sofa in the office and thought about Jenny’s message. Why was Linda redecorating her office? Had she been officially appointed chair of the history department and was celebrating by sprucing up her digs at the college?

  What about the disappearing diploma? In light of what I’d learned today about Davis Rhodes’s “enhanced” degrees, was it possible that Linda’s degrees were “enhanced” too? Was she afraid that Rhodes would recognize her and know that she wasn’t part of the 1974 Papermill graduating class? Maybe he did, and he was blackmailing her. I was no expert on academic protocol, but I was willing to bet that if Fairport College found out that her degree was a phony, it would be grounds for immediate dismissal.

  Yes, that was a pretty impressive motive, all right. Even Claire would have to agree with that. I was being objective. Could I help it if the facts kept pointing more and more toward Linda?