The Death at Yew Corner (2 page)

“You going to work in the garden today?” he asked.

“It's going to rain.”

“You could return the governor's call.”

“Have.”

He took the cup from her hand and sipped coffee. “And?”

“She offered me a job.”

A smile broke across his face. If she hadn't been so irritable, she would have kissed him.

“That's great! Why don't you take it until you start your next campaign?”

“I may never run for office again.”

“Sorry for ourselves this morning, aren't we?”

“The governor wants me to serve on a committee that's investigating legalized gambling.”

He looked a little dubious. “Well, that could be interesting.”

“I may be against legalized gambling entirely.”

“Investigating it is one way to find out. Or you could take that Washington offer.”

“No thanks. An under-under secretary on the civil service commission is burial.”

Lyon looked at his wife with concern. The bulky quilt mostly hid her tallish, well-proportioned figure, but he knew well the trim curves of her body. He wanted to run his hands through her close-cropped hair, but this didn't seem to be a terribly auspicious time. Her dark eyes were usually darting and energetic, filled with bright perception and humor. This morning they seemed listless. His wife's vitality had temporarily vanished, but he knew it would return. She would eventually recover from her recent election defeat. In the meantime, he wished there was something he could do to lighten her depression.

“Suppose we take a trip to New York. We could stay a few days and take in a couple of shows.”

She smiled for the first time that morning. “You're nearly finished with the book. Maybe when it's done we can go to the city and celebrate.” She pushed up from the bed. “I'm alive now. Thanks for the coffee.”

She rinsed breakfast dishes, placed them on the rack in the dishwasher, and then looked out the window into a misty morning. The day wouldn't entice her into the garden. She could faintly hear the steady
pickity pock
of Lyon's typewriter in the study. The steady rhythm of the typing told her that the book was going well. In a few days her husband's benign children's monsters, the Wobblies, would again sally forth to deal in more adventure and good deeds.

God, that's what she needed. Her own personal Wobbly to ward off the demons of depression. Bea slammed the dishwasher shut and turned the operating dial. She must keep busy. She must fill her days until the personal demons disappeared and life's color returned.

Bea drove the pickup truck toward the town of Murphysville. She had decided to visit Fabian Bunting. She laughed aloud. Fabian's iconoclastic outlook on life, and the vibrancy of the old woman, would put her depression in its proper perspective. She could almost predict what her old teacher would say: “For God's sake, Beatrice, cut the self-pity. You've taught, served in the state house of representatives, state senate, and a term as secretary of the state. So, you lost a congressional election to a man far to the right of Joe McCarthy … go sulk, honey.” Yes, Faby would make her laugh again, and Bea knew that her duty visit to the Murphysville Convalescent Home would do more for her than for the patient.

She'd go as soon as she did some shopping at the supermarket. The visit would be a needed remedy for a bleak day overshadowed with dark uncertainties that occasionally haunted midlife.

Murphysville, Connecticut, was located near the geographical center of the state, thirty miles southeast of Hartford. It was a town that in many ways appeared to be untouched by the past hundred years. The village green still faced a circle of homes, churches, and stores whose façades, by edict of the historical commission, had remained the same since the turn of the century. A mile down Main Street, away from the green, Bea pulled into a small shopping center. She purchased groceries and then continued on for another mile toward the outskirts of town and the convalescent home.

Activity on the picket line stretched across the front of the home was now desultory. The strikers seemed to be conserving energy as they waited for the next shift change when they would again attempt to intimidate those still working in the home. Two men walked slowly abreast with militant placards, while most of the others had spread out across the grass and held Styrofoam cups of coffee.

Kim Ward was talking animatedly to several workers as Bea parked her car up the street and walked toward her. The black woman had been Bea's assistant for the past several years, first in the legislature, then during Bea's term as secretary of the state. She had been Bea's campaign manager for her last disastrous campaign for Congress. Now, her former aide and friend was an organizer for the newly formed service workers union.

Kim smiled and waved as Bea crossed the grass and walked toward her. “Hey, Bea! You here to give moral support or join the line?”

“None of the above. I'm stopping in to see Dr. Bunting for a few minutes.”

“We've heard that one before,” a heavyset woman stretched out on the grass with obviously painful feet said belligerently. “They give us that jazz and then sneak in and empty bedpans.”

“Senator Wentworth's all right,” another striker said.

Bea held up both hands. “Honest, no work, no bedpans, no mopping. One short visit to an old lady friend and teacher.”

“That's the one who hung out the window this morning and yelled, ‘Right on.'”

“Bunting's a tiger,” someone added.

Bea waved, promised to return later to hear their grievances, and walked briskly down the short walk to the main entrance of the home. There was no one at the reception desk near the door. A glance down the corridors revealed them to be empty also.

She decided to take the stairs for one flight rather than wait for the slow self-service elevator. She hurried up the stairwell as if hoping to avoid the all-pervasive smell of the place. She detested this building and well understood why Fabian Bunting fought it with every fiber of her being. It was a mirror of the future—a future filled with Bea's own limitations and the inexorable march of old age. Her present depression told her that youth was past, which meant that age hovered around a nearby corner. Infirmity crept so stealthily that you were not aware of it until it was too late for conscious choice or action.

The stairway's exit on the second floor was directly in front of the nurses' station. A harried R.N. glanced up myopically at Bea and then back down to her medicine tray. Another nurse rushed from one side of the hall to a room across the way in answer to some plea. Bea turned to the left toward Dr. Bunting's room, which was the fifth door down from the nurses' station.

She knocked softly on the open door and stepped inside. Dr. Bunting's bed by the window was empty. The bedding was still rumpled from the night before.

A frail old woman curled up in a fetal position in the near bed blinked her eyes open and stared at Bea.

“Is Dr. Bunting around?”

“She makes so much noise” was the whining response.

Bea laughed. “I imagine she does. I'm Bea Wentworth, Mrs. Rathbone. We met last week. You told me about your children.”

“I have four you know.”

“Yes, and I know you're very proud of them.”

“I'm going to die.”

Bea did not know how to respond to that statement. She had no way of knowing the actual physical condition of the old woman, her mental stability, or the power of her will—which she suspected had ebbed away. “I thought you were looking better today” was her reply.

“No, I'm not. The loud one went down the hall in her chair. She probably went to the sun-room.”

“Yes, thank you. Perhaps we can talk later.”

“That would be nice.” The reply was nearly lost as the old woman closed her eyes and clutched a blanket to her neck.

Bea hurried from the room with a twinge of shame, not really knowing how to cope with the situation. How should she react to a woman willing herself to die? She realized that Dr. Bunting's verbose battle against infirmity and incompetence indicated a fierce will to live.

The R.N. at the nurses' station looked up as Bea passed. “Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Fabian Bunting.”

“I think she went to the sun-room.” The nurse looked back at her charts.

Bea stood in the doorway of the empty sun-room. A midmorning sun had forced its way through protesting clouds and fell in irregular columns across the floor tiles. The imitation leather-covered chairs with chrome fittings shone dully in the dusty light. She walked to the far windowsill and picked up the opera glasses resting there. She held them in the palm of her hand for a moment, and then slowly put them back and walked to the nurses' station.

“Dr. Bunting is not in the sun-room.”

The R.N. glanced up and scowled. “I can't keep track of every patient by myself. We are shorthanded, you know?”

“I know you are, and it must be difficult. Perhaps she is somewhere else in the building?”

“Well, how would I …?” The nurse gave a shrug of resignation and grabbed a chart. “She's not charted for anything. She could have gone to the OT room, the TV room, or she might be visiting another patient. I just don't have the time.”

“Thank you.” Bea turned away. She had been in the convalescent home a dozen times since it opened three years ago. She had known other patients here, and since Dr. Bunting's admission, had visited at least once a week. The layout of the home was simple: a two-story brick building with the main wing parallel to the street and two side wings running toward the rear of the property from each end of the main building. There was a construction site at the rear of the property that would eventually be an annex containing additional beds. The wings contained kitchens, offices, service areas, and a laundry. The game room was downstairs alongside the occupational therapy room. She would try there first.

In twenty minutes she had established that Fabian was not in any of the common rooms, nor was she visiting another patient. A vague sense of alarm quickened her pace as she went back to the nurses' station on the second floor.

The R.N. she had spoken to earlier was pushing a medicine cart at the far end of the corridor. Bea slouched against the counter of the station to wait. Of course, it was silly to worry. Bunting was the kind of person who might have gone anywhere … wheelchair or not. She could possibly be back in the kitchens complaining about the food, or in the laundry room.

Across the hall were double swinging doors. A small black-and-white plaque announced the entrance to the physical therapy room. The nurse was not yet halfway down the hall. Bea walked impatiently toward the double doors and pushed them open.

Curls of steam rose from a galvanized tub in the far corner of the PT room. A hand with talonlike fingers curled over the edge of the tub's rim.

2

“It's the fault of those ungrateful scum! Look at them out there on the grass. They don't want to work!”

The voice of the convalescent home's administrator trembled in outrage. Gustav Tanner was a diminutive man with a ferret face who was now intent on justifying the death to everyone present. Bea didn't like him. She mumbled a terse acknowledgment and turned toward the two nurses, an aide, and a doctor who hovered over the gurney where Fabian Bunting's body now rested.

“It's the strike,” the administrator continued as he plucked Bea's sleeve. “They want the world handed to them on a platter. Look what happens. We're so shorthanded a patient was left unattended in the whirlpool. It's their fault. Out-and-out negligence that I blame on those outside agitators.”

The portly doctor with muttonchop whiskers detached himself from the small group around the gurney and walked over to Bea and the administrator. “Cardiac arrest, Mr. Tanner.” They all watched as a sheet was pulled over the face of Fabian Bunting, former doctor of philosophy and iconoclast.

“You'll put that on the certificate?”

“Of course.”

The large male aide who had helped with the removal of the body caught Tanner's attention. “She was pretty unhappy here, Mr. Tanner. She could have done herself in.”

Gustav Tanner considered this for a moment. Bea could imagine his mental machinations as he mulled over a fear of lawsuits and the reputation of the home and its staff.

“Patients have done it before.”

“Crawled in a tub?” Bea asked.

The doctor closed his medical bag. “I'll complete my paper work in the office.”

“Make sure it's cardiac arrest,” Tanner yelled after the departing physician.

Bea felt Tanner's hand on her elbow as he attempted to steer her from the room. She turned to break his grip and walked over to the tub. The therapy bath rested on the floor on conical-shaped feet. A movable ladder seat could be wheeled to the edge where the occupant could either step into the tub or be lowered into the water. Bea noticed that the steps were in the far corner of the room. She felt the presence of the administrator by her side. “How did she get in, Mr. Tanner?”

“You may rest assured that I shall find out.”

“And take appropriate action?”

“Naturally. And now, Mrs.…”

“Wentworth.”

“My people would like to tidy up the room and make arrangements for Mrs. Bunting.”

“Doctor Bunting.”

“Of course.”

Bea allowed herself to be led into the hallway. “Don't you find this odd, Mr. Tanner?”

“Odd? No, not really, Mrs. Wentworth. It must be shocking to you, but it is an unfortunate fact of life that we here in the home face death on a day-to-day basis.”

“By scalding?”

“Cardiac arrest is commonplace in a woman of her age.”

“Mr. Tanner, I found her. Remember?”

Tanner looked at her for a long moment. His eyes were cold and withdrawn. “Exactly what are you implying?”