And Thereby Hangs a Tale (7 page)

In the course of a long weekend spent with a
middle-aged married doctor, Lynn discovered, without once having to refer to a textbook,
not only that Jackson Memorial Hospital was the most expensive rest home in the
state, but also that it didn't offer special rates for deserving cases.

Once Lynn had graduated with a nursing diploma,
and a grade which came as a surprise to her fellow students but not to her professor,
she applied for a job at Jackson Memorial.

She was interviewed by a panel of three, two
of whom, including the Medical Director, were not convinced that Ms Beattie came
from the right sort of background to be a Jackson nurse. The third bumped into
her in the car park on his way home, and the following morning he was able to
convince his colleagues to change their minds.

Lynn Beattie began work as a probationary nurse
on the first day of the following month.

She did not rush the next part of her plan, aware
that if the Medical Director found out what she was up to, he would dismiss her
without a second thought.

From the first day, Lynn went quietly and conscientiously
about her work, melting into the background while keeping her eyes wide open.
She quickly discovered that a hospital, just like any other workplace, has its
gossip-mongers, who enjoy nothing more than to pass on the latest snippet of
information to anyone willing to listen. Lynn was willing to listen. After a
few weeks Lynn had discovered the one thing she needed to know about the
doctors, and, later, a great deal more about their patients.

There were twenty-three doctors who
ministered to the needs of seventy-one residents.

Lynn had no interest in how many nurses there
were, because she had no plans for them, provided she didn't come across a rival.

The gossip-monger told her that three of the
doctors assumed that every nurse wanted to sleep with them, which made it far
easier for Lynn to continue her research. After another few weeks, which included
several 'stopovers', she found out, without ever being able to make a note,
that sixty-eight of the residents were married, senile or, worse, received
regular visits from their devoted relatives. Lynn had to accept the fact that
90 per cent of women either outlive their husbands or end up divorcing them. It's
all part of the American dream. However, Lynn still managed to come up with a
shortlist of three candidates who suffered from none of these deficiencies:
Frank Cunningham Jr, Larry Schumacher III and Arthur J. Sommerfield.

Frank Cunningham was eliminated when Lynn
discovered that he had two mistresses, one of whom was pregnant and had
recently served a paternity suit on him, demanding that a DNA test be carried
out.

Larry Schumacher III also had to be crossed off
the list when Lynn found out he was visited every day by his close friend
Gregory, who didn't look a day over fifty. Come to think of it, not many people
in Florida do.

However, the third candidate ticked all her boxes.

Arthur J. Sommerfield was a retired banker whose
worth according to Forbes magazinea publication which had replaced Playboy as Lynn's
postgraduate reading -- was estimated at around a hundred million dollars: a fortune
that had grown steadily through the assiduous husbandry of three generations of
Sommerfields. Arthur was a widower who had only been married once (another
rarity in Florida), to Arlene, who had died of breast cancer some seven years
earlier. He had two children, Chester and Joni, both of whom lived abroad.
Chester worked for an engineering company in Brazil, and was married with three
children, while his sister Joni had recently become engaged to a landscape gardener
in Montreal. Although they both wrote to their father regularly, and phoned most
Sundays, visits werýys,as mand e less frequent.

Six weeks later, after a slower than usual courtship,
Lynn was transferred to the private wing of Dr William Grove, who was the
personal physician of her would-be victim.

Dr Grove was under the illusion that the
only reason Lynn had sought the transfer was so she could be near him. He was
impressed by how seriously the young nurse took her responsibilities. She was
always willing to work unsociable hours, and never once complained about having
to do overtime, especially after he'd informed her that poor Mr Sommerfield
didn't have much longer to live.

Lynn quickly settled into a daily routine
that ensured her patient's every need was attended to. Mr Sommerfield's
preferred morning paper, the International Herald Tribune, and his favourite
beverage, a mug of hot chocolate, were to be found on his bedside table moments
after he woke. At ten, she would help Arthur -- he insisted she call him Arthur -
to get dressed. At eleven, they would venture out for their morning
constitutional around the grounds, during which he would always cling on to
her. She never once complained about which part of her anatomy he clung on to.

After lunch she would read to the old man until
he fell asleep, occasionally Steinbeck, but more often Chandler. At five, Lynn would
wake him so that he could watch repeats of his favourite television sitcom, The
Phil Silvers Show, before enjoying a light supper.

At eight, she allowed him a single glass of malt
whisky -- it didn't take her long to discover that only Glenmorangie was
acceptable - accompanied by a Cuban cigar. Both were frowned upon by Dr Grove,
but encouraged by Lynn.

'We just won't tell him,' Lynn would say
before turning out the light. She would then slip a hand under the sheet, where
it would remain until Arthur had fallen into a deep, contented sleep. Something
else she didn't tell the doctor about.

One of the tenets of the Jackson Memorial Hospital
was to make sure that patients were sent home when it became obvious they had only
a few weeks to live.

'Much more pleasant to spend your final days
in familiar surroundings,' Dr Grove explained to Lynn. 'And besides,' he added
in a quieter voice, 'it doesn't look good if everyone who comes to Jackson
Memorial dies here.'

On hearing the news of his imminent
discharge -- which, loosely translated, meant demise -- Arthur refused to budge
unless Lynn was allowed to accompany him. He had no intention of employing an
agency nurse who didn't understand his daily routine.

'So, how would you feel about leaving us for
a few weeks?' Dr Grove asked her in the privacy of his office.

'I don't want to leave you, William,' she
said, taking his hand, 'but if it's what you want me to do...'

'We wouldn't be apart for too long, honey,'

Dr Grove said, taking her in his arms. 'And
in any case, as his physician, I'd have to visit the old man at
least twice a week.'

'But he could live for months, possibly
years,' said Lynn, clinging to him.

'No, darling, that's not possible. I can
assure you it will be a few weeks at the most.' Dr Grove was not able to see
the smile on Lynn's face.

Ten days later, Arthur J. Sommerfield was discharged
from Jackson Memorial and driven to his home in Bel Air.

He sat silently in the back seat, holding Lynn's
hand. He didn't speak until the chauffeur had driven through a pair of crested wrought-iron
gates and up a long driveway, and brought the car to a halt outside a vast redbrick
mansion.

'This is the family home,' said Arthur proudly.

And it's where I'll be spending the rest of
my life, thought Lynn as she gazed in admiration at the magnificent house
situated in several acres of manicured lawns, bordered by flower beds and
surrounded by hundreds of trees, the likes of which Lynn had only ever seen in
a public park.

She soon settled into the room next door to Arthur's
master suite and continued to carry out her routine, always completing the day with
a happy-ending massage, as they used to call it at the agency.

It was on a Thursday evening, after his second
whisky (only allowed when Lynn was certain Dr Grove wouldn't be visiting his
patient that day), that Arthur said, 'I know I don't have much longer to live,
my dear.'

Lynn began to protest, but the old man waved
a dismissive hand before adding, 'And I'd like to leave you a little something
in my will.'

A little something wasn't exactly what Lynn had
in mind. 'How considerate of you,' she replied. 'But I don't want anything,
Arthur . .

.' She hesitated. 'Except perhaps...'

'Yes, my dear?'

'Perhaps you could make a donation to some worthy
cause? Or a bequest to your favourite charity in my name?'

'How typically thoughtful of you, my dear.

But wouldn't you also like some personal memento?'

Lynn pretended to consider the offer for some
time before she said, 'Well, I've grown rather attached to your cane with the
silver handle, the one you used to take on our afternoon walks at Jackson
Memorial. And if your children wouldn't object, I'd also like the photo of you that's
on your desk in the study -- the one taken when you were a freshman at
Princeton. You were so handsome, Arthur.'

The old man smiled. 'You shall have both of them,
my dear. I'll speak to my lawyer tomorrow.'

Mr Haskins, the senior partner of Haskins, Haskins
& Purbright, was not the kind of man who would
easily have succumbed to Miss Beattie's charms.

However, he wholeheartedly approved when his
client expressed the desire to add several large donations to selected
charities and other institutions to his will -- after all, he was a Princeton
man himself. And he certainly didn't object when Arthur told him that he wanted
to leave his cane with the silver handle, and a photo of himself when he was at
Princeton, to his devoted nurse, Miss Lynn Beattie.

'Just a keepsake, you understand,' Lynn murmured
as the lawyer wrote down Arthur's words.

'I'll send the documents to you within a week,'
Mr Haskins said as he rose to leave, 'in case there are any further revisions
you might wish to consider.'

'Thank you, Haskins,' Arthur replied, but he
had fallen asleep even before they'd had a chance to shake hands.

Mr Haskins was as good as his word, and a large
legal envelope, marked Private & Con-fidential, arrived by courier five
days later.

Lynn took it straight to her room, and once Arthur
had fallen asleep she studied every syllable of the forty-seven-page document carefully.
After she had turned the last page, she felt that only one paragraph needed to
be amended before the old man put his signature to it.

When Lynn brought in Arthur's breakfast tray
the following morning, she handed him his newspaper and said, 'I don't think Mr
Haskins likes me.'

'What makes you say that, my dear?' asked Arthur
as he unfolded the Herald Tribune.

She placed a copy of the will on his bedside
table and said, 'There's no mention of your cane with the silver handle, or of
my favourite photo of you. I'm afraid I won't have anything to remember you by.'

'Damn the man,' said Arthur, spilling his
hot chocolate.

'Get him on the phone immediately.'

'That won't be necessary,' said Lynn. 'I'll
be passing by his office later this afternoon. I'll drop the will off and
remind him of your generous offer. Perhaps he simply forgot.'

'Yes, why don't you do that, my dear. But be
sure you're back in time for Phil Silvers.'

Lynn did indeed pass by the Haskins, Haskins
& Purbright building that afternoon, on her way to the office of a Mr
Kullick, whom she had rung earlier to arrange an appointment. She had chosen Mr
Kullick for two reasons. The first was that he had left Haskins, Haskins &
Purbright some years before, having been passed over as a partner.

There were several other lawyers in the town
who had suffered the same fate, but what tipped the balance in Mr Kullick's
favour was the fact that he was the vice-president of the local branch of the National
Rifle Association.

Lynn took the lift to the fourth floor. As
she entered the lawyer's office, Mr Kullick rose to greet her, ushering his
potential client into a chair. 'How can I help you, Miss Beattie?' he asked
even before he'd sat down.

'You can't help me,' said Lynn, 'but my
employer is in need of your services. He's unable to attend in person because,
sadly, he's bedridden.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Mr Kullick.

'However, I'll need to know who it is that I'd
be representing.' When he heard the name, he sat bolt upright in his chair and straightened
his tie.

'Mr Sommerfield has recently executed a new
will,' said Lynn, 'and he wishes one paragraph on page thirty-two to be amended.'
She passed over the will that had been prepared by Mr Haskins, and the reworded
paragraph she had neatly typed on Arthur's headed notepaper above a signature he
had scrawled after a third whisky.

Once Mr Kullick had read the emendation, he
remained silent for some time. 'I will happily draw up a new will for Mr
Sommerfield, but of course I'll need to be present when he signs the document.'
He paused. 'It will also have to be countersigned by an independent witness.'

'Of course,' said Lynn, who had not
anticipated this problem and realized she would need a little time to find a
way round it.