The Death at Yew Corner (3 page)

“A fact.”

“I assume you are suggesting that the patient made her way into the tub room by herself and …”

“I am not suggesting that at all.”

“Since you were evidently her friend, if you would care to notify members of the family, please feel free to use the phone in the administration office.” Tanner turned and walked back through the double doors.

The hall was deserted. Bea heard a low moan from a room down the hall. The nurses' station was vacant. She wondered whom to call. Fabian Bunting had outlived the members of her family and her past lovers. Only a small group of friends would mourn. Bea felt a tear on her cheek and brushed it away.

On impulse she went behind the counter of the station. A wheeled cart with several racks of charts hanging on their metal coverings was aligned against the wall. She searched until she found the one labeled Bunting. The day's entries were concise:

6:30 Patient awake. 7:00 Breakfast. 7:30 Meds.

The last entry. There wasn't any entry today or for the past week for physical therapy.

Kim and Bea drank coffee in a narrow booth inside the Ice Cream Shoppe down the road from the convalescent home. Kim had taken Bea's arm when she left the home and had steered her toward the shop. The conversation concerning the strike had been animated and one-sided.

“They make minimum wage in there. My God, Bea, you know as well as I do that you can't live on one hundred thirty bucks a week and support a family. Most of them would be better off on welfare. At least then they'd be eligible for food stamps and free medical care. That fink Tanner comes back at us and says he can't give any raises without charging more to the patients—and that puts us in a real bind. Marty says that it's all a sweetheart deal. They have the money and can pay more. Are you listening? Bea?”

“What? Oh, sure, Kim.”

“Lost interest in the working class?”

“No, of course not. Who's Marty?”

“Marty Rustman. He's the president of our local. A real fireball. One hell of a public speaker and quite a guy. A little flaky sometimes, but a real leader. Is something wrong?”

“Dr. Bunting is dead. It's taking me a little time to assimilate it. I'm sorry if I haven't paid attention.”

“Fabian Bunting. That's too bad. She was quite a woman. It must have happened suddenly. We saw her leaning out the window yelling for us just before you arrived.”

“Oh? What time was that?”

“It couldn't have been but a few minutes before you arrived. Then a little later I noticed her in the sun-room at the end of the second floor. She had a small pair of binoculars.”

“Like opera glasses?”

“Yes. She watched us for a few minutes and then must have left, or else I didn't notice her.”

“Minutes before I arrived?”

“I'm sure of it, because about that time we were hassling some scabs trying to cross the line.”

“I think I had better make a call.” She slid from the booth and crossed to a wall phone. She fumbled for a dime in the loose change in her pocketbook, dropped it in the slot, and held the humming receiver near her ear. Her index finger was poised over the dial. Lyon would be at work. He would be deeply immersed in his imaginary creatures as he hurried to complete the book for a Christmas publication date. His response would be vague and distant as he tried to shift mental gears and align himself with her fears. She made her decision and dialed the Murphysville Police Department. “Chief Herbert, please.”

A connection was made quickly. “Herbert.” The voice was deep and robust in keeping with the massive bulk of the man.

“Bea Wentworth, Rocco. There's been a death at the Murphysville Convalescent Home.”

“Unfortunately there often is, Bea. It's hardly a police matter.”

“Give me a moment.” She quickly recounted her discovery of Dr. Bunting's body and the circumstances. She voiced her misgivings over the lack of chart notation and the time sequence between when Kim last saw the old lady and the approximate time of death.

“That hardly constitutes murder, Bea.”

“The way things stand now, once the death certificate is signed, you won't even be involved, will you?”

“No reason to be. You know, they have a strike over there. Things are probably in a real mess, which might account for her being left unattended.”

“I think it's more than that, Rocco.”

“A motive of any sort?”

“I don't think so, but I'd still like you to come.”

Rocco sighed. “All right, Bea. Give me a couple of minutes to tie up some loose ends.”

He hung up and Bea stood by the phone for a few moments thinking about possible motives. Fabian Bunting had been a tenured professor at her alma mater. There was a husband somewhere back in the dim past, but Bea wasn't sure if the marriage had been dissolved in divorce or death; either way it must have been over thirty years ago. She didn't believe Fabian had a private income and assumed she probably subsisted on the modest pension the college provided. What possible motive could there be? Who would want to kill an eighty-four-year-old woman—irascible as she might have been sometimes?

Kim had paid for the coffee when Bea returned to the booth. They left the restaurant and walked back toward the picket line where Bea would wait for Rocco Herbert.

The van had stopped outside town where another man climbed into the cab. The man had glanced back toward the rear, where he was tied, and then they had driven on. He knew they were going to kill him. He was not particularly surprised. He had been threatened, beaten, and spat on before during his years of union organizing, and this was not totally unexpected. He knew who they were and why they were doing it, but perhaps they would only beat him. A few blows with a baseball bat across the knees, a tire iron across the face, something that would hurt and maim but still allow him to survive. It was possible that he might live. He would hold on to that—it was all he had
.

The strikers were clustered in groups. Their conversations erupted in angry buzzes, and Kim knew something was wrong. She left Bea and ran over to the first group. Her body shook with rage as she heard the accusations the nursing-home administrator had made. She turned to face Bea with her hands balled in tight fists.

“That bastard blames us.”

“For what?”

“Dr. Bunting's death. He claims the noise of the strike upset her and caused her to become extremely agitated. Damn it, Bea! That woman was with us.”

“What's wrong with that guy?” someone yelled.

“He says we're responsible.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“I know it, you know it, and he knows it. But that's the word that'll go out to the newspapers.”

The police cruiser swerved to a halt in front of the home and was immediately surrounded by a score of strikers. Rocco Herbert unlimbered his mammoth body from the vehicle to face the gesticulating workers. He listened with his six-foot-eight height slouched toward a short Puerto Rican as the man's torrent of words shifted uncontrollably from Spanish to English. Rocco nodded, nodded again, and then turned away to walk toward Bea and Kim.

While watching the large man approach, Bea marveled, as she often did, at the close relationship between her husband and this massive police officer. They were such divergent individuals. Her husband was a quixotic and often dreamy man, while his friend, Rocco, was a pragmatic policeman who seemed constantly saddened by his perspective of the foibles of the human condition. Bea knew that the relationship had begun years ago when Rocco had served with Lyon in Korea. Her husband was a junior intelligence officer attached to Division G-2, while Rocco's Ranger company had been the eyes and ears that Lyon had so effectively utilized in his intelligence operations. The relationship had continued over the years, both men comfortable in each other's company, perhaps because their personalities complemented each other.

“Morning, Bea, Kim.” Rocco touched the brim of his hat.

Bea took Rocco's arm and led him up the walk toward the main entrance of the nursing home. “Thanks for coming.”

“You know how this is going to read out, Bea. The management is going to call you a troublemaker trying to make political points with the workers.”

“When it comes to the murder of one of my friends, I'd like to make a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“It's well known that Kim worked with you for years, and that now she's an organizer for the service workers. The allegation of impropriety by the home is going to seem like …”

“I don't operate that way, Rocco.”

“I know. But I wonder if they do.”

Gustav Tanner stood in the reception area nervously awaiting their arrival. His fingers moved with a life of their own, and his facial features seemed possessed by a slight tremor.

“I want those idiots moved away from here, Chief Herbert.”

“Who might that be, Mr. Tanner?”

An extended finger pointed to the strikers clustered near the door. “Out there! That scum!”

“Have they broken the law?”

“They're disrupting routine.”

“I believe that's their legal intention,” Bea said.

“I'm here about the death of Dr. Bunting,” Rocco said. “Can we talk in your office?”

In twenty minutes Rocco had examined the death certificate and inspected the physical therapy room, where he paid close attention to the lethal tub. He requested Fabian Bunting's chart. The chart now lay open on the administrator's desk as his finger moved slowly down the entries. He read aloud: “Six-thirty, Patient awake. Seven, Breakfast. Seven-thirty, Meds. Nine-forty-five, Physical therapy. Ten-fifteen, Patient expired.”

Bea gave a start and sat on the edge of her chair. “Read that again.”

Rocco repeated the entries and then looked at her expectantly. “Well? Nothing unusual about the chart.”

“That PT notation wasn't there when I looked at it earlier.”

Tanner snapped the chart's metal cover shut and pulled it back across the desk. “Only authorized personnel are allowed to see a patient's medical records.”

“That PT entry was not there when I left here.”

“That's impossible.”

“Do you know who made those last entries?” Rocco asked.

Tanner opened the chart and examined the handwriting carefully. “Miss Williams made the first three. I made the final notation. I can't tell who made the PT note. We're all off schedule here because of the strike.”

“All right,” Rocco said. “Let's find out who took Fabian Bunting to the tub room and made that entry.”

There were ten employees assigned to the second floor during the time span when Dr. Bunting died. They were a mixed group of administrative personnel, supervisors, two R.N.s, and an aide or two who chose to ignore the picket line and come to work. Most were quickly eliminated because they had been seen by others or were in other parts of the building during the thirty minutes when the scalding death would have had to occur. Four had taken a coffee break together and were in the canteen room during the crucial time period.

Bambi Williams, R.N., sat primly before the desk that was now occupied by Rocco. She clasped her hands on her starched lap and looked intently at Rocco as if to discern some hidden meaning in his posture.

“Where were you between nine-forty-five and ten-fifteen, Miss Williams?”

“I was giving out midmorning meds.”

“Anyone see you?”

“The patients, of course. At least the ones who can still think.” There was a biting edge in her voice, a vehemence that chilled the room and made Bea immediately feel compassion for the helpless individuals served by this bitter woman.

“And you took Dr. Bunting to the tub room during that period?”

“No.”

“In the rush of events you forgot about her.” Rocco's voice was matter of fact and without any judgmental quality.

“I certainly did not.”

“Someone charted her for PT. The charts were in your possession during that period.”

“They were at the nurses' station and available to anyone while I was in the rooms.”

“Did you see anyone take Dr. Bunting to the tub room?”

“No. The last time I saw her she was careening down the hallway to the sun-room to make more trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?” Bea interjected.

“She'd been yelling out her window all morning. I had to restrain her.”

“Restrain?”

“Not in the physical sense. I took her away from the window and locked it. That's when she went to the sun-room and that's the last I saw of her.”

“Thank you, Miss Williams.”

The nurse rose from her chair as if catapulted and walked briskly toward the door.

“You didn't care for her, did you?” Bea said.

“She was a crotchety old bitch,” Bambi Williams said as she left the room.

“I have the feeling that the lady does not like her work,” Rocco said.

“God help the infirm. Who's next?”

Rocco looked down at his list. “The last one is an aide named Mike Maginacolda.” He called out, “Mr. Maginacolda, please.”

Maginacolda swaggered into the room. It took Bea a few moments to decipher what it was that made him incongruous in this setting. His defiant attitude initially put her off, but then she realized that it was his hospital whites. They fit too well. The usual bunch of fabric across the rear of the shoulders so usual in rented linens was missing. His uniform had been tailored.

Maginacolda slouched into the chair Rocco indicated. He glanced over at Bea with a smile of prurient, crude sexuality.

Rocco looked studiously at a personnel file in front of him. “It has been brought to our attention that you took Bunting to the physical therapy room.”

“That's a goddamn lie!” Maginacolda leaned over the desk and slapped his palms loudly on its surface. “I was nowhere near the second floor when she croaked.”