Grace Sees Red (11 page)

“The police have been back to talk with me three times already,” he said.

And?
I wanted to ask. But this guy enjoyed the banter. Enjoyed playing too much. I suddenly felt empathy for Bootsie when I teased her with her feather stick.

I shook my head. “I heard about that injector cap you found on the floor.” With a dismissive chuckle, I said, “I'll bet there are dozens—if not hundreds—of identical pieces of plastic in this building right now. The fact that one got kicked into Gus's room shouldn't surprise anyone.”

“And it doesn't.” The scary smile grew. “But all the missing insulin sure did.”

I held up an index finger. “Only
one
injector is missing. And that's assuming someone didn't miscount or misplace it.”

“You haven't heard, then,” he said with far too much glee for my taste. “That's what everyone thought at first. But when they took a closer look, they found out that at least
four
dosages are missing.”

“I thought they said—”

“That only one was missing? Yeah,” he said. “As for the other three?” He waited a long beat. “The injectors were right where they should be in Percy's room, but guess what? All three of them were empty.”

I felt my jaw drop. “That can't be.” Frances had told me that she'd done a quick inventory the day before. If the vials had been empty, surely she would have noticed.

Santiago added a smug nod to his repertoire of repugnant gestures. “You know what that means, don't you? This was no accident. Frances not only administered the fatal dose, she took precautions to cover her tracks. Premeditated murder.” He held up both hands, mimicking helplessness. “Sorry.”

“Three insulin vials were empty?”

“Yep,” he said.

“That's despicable,” I said. “What if Percy needed an injection? Or two? Whoever stole the medicine put his life in danger.”

Santiago waved the air. “I'm sure Frances had a backup plan. She dotes on that man. And I'm sure she intended to replace what she used as quickly as she could.”

“Frances didn't do this.” My voice sounded as strained as I felt. “And I'm sure we'll find a reasonable explanation for the missing insulin.” I worked hard to tamp down my frustration. “Plus, we don't even know for sure that Gus died from an insulin overdose. He could just as easily have died from natural causes.”

“Yeah,” Santiago said, stringing the word out. “And Tara here is going to be my boss someday.” He missed Tara's annoyed reaction when he rolled his eyes.

“You never know,” I said. “Hard work and perseverance are far better indicators of success than wild speculation and time-wasting.”

He didn't like that one bit. “Like I said, I've seen a lot in my years here, but I never expected to get involved in a murder investigation. I'm not making anything up. I simply reported to the proper authorities.”

His cell phone rang, interrupting his lecturing me further. Pulling the device from his pocket, he glanced at the display. “Got to take this one. Excuse me.”

When he turned his back and started away with the phone jammed against one ear and a finger plugging the other, Debbie tapped my arm again. “I was trying to spare you. I knew that once he got started, he'd say something stupid.”

Tara spun in her chair. “Don't mind him. He's convinced he's some sort of amateur detective.” She tossed a frown over her shoulder and didn't bother to lower her voice. “And let's see who reports to who come next promotion.” She fixed me with a direct gaze. “He's delusional, that one.”

“Tara's not kidding,” Debbie said. “Santiago loves being the center of attention.”

“Is it true?” I asked. “About all the missing insulin, I mean?”

Debbie shrugged.

Tara said, “We only know what Santiago tells us.”

“But I agree with you,” Debbie said. “Gus died of natural causes. It's ludicrous to think otherwise.”

Tara nodded. “Debbie thinks that Gus had a heart attack or a stroke.”

“He was a prime candidate for either,” Debbie said.

“When will full autopsy results be back?” I asked.

Tara shook her head. “We don't deal with autopsies too often around here. I'd be guessing.”

“They should have a preliminary report soon,” Debbie said. “But testing for certain drugs usually takes longer.”

“And they'll be able to determine if Gus died from an insulin overdose?”

“Insulin is exceptionally hard to detect in an autopsy.” Debbie said. “I'm sure there's nothing to find.” She slid a glance back toward the desk. “I'll be happy to see Mr. Super Sleuth over there get his comeuppance.”

As Debbie and I made our way to Percy's door, I asked, “Who else has access to patients' rooms and medications?”

“That's complicated. In this wing—where patients live as autonomously as they can—most handle their own meds. Staff members have access to everyone's apartment, of course, but there are strict rules about when and how often we can enter a resident's room.”

That wasn't much help. “When you say that staff members have access,” I asked, “does that apply to everyone? I understand medical personnel visits, but what about aides, volunteers, and the cleaning crew?”

“Part of the appeal of living here is that all residents' needs are provided for,” she said, “so yes—even our cleaning people have access to rooms. But it's more considerate to knock first than to let oneself in unannounced. That's why patients use that.” She pointed to the automatic door opener, a metal plate set about waist height in the wall next to us. “And we use this.” She lifted the brass knocker affixed just above the three residents' names and let it drop. “But every
employee—no matter their position—must submit to a background check before starting work here.”

From inside, Percy shouted that he was coming.

“Even though we screen people,” she continued, “we still advise residents to keep valuables locked up. Indwell is proud of the fact that none of our residents has ever had anything of value stolen. Items do go missing from time to time,” she said with a wry smile, “but they're usually recovered quickly. Glasses are the biggest culprit. TV remotes and cell phones, too; those sorts of things. That's to be expected, especially with some patients suffering from memory loss.”

I listened politely to her gentle boasting about Indwell's pristine reputation, but was more captivated by an earlier comment. “Let's go back to who has access to these rooms,” I said. “You're telling me that if they find insulin in Gus's system, there are plenty of people who could have killed him. Frances isn't the only option.”

“Don't let the wild claims get to you.” Debbie crinkled up her nose. “They won't find insulin in Gus's system. The man just . . . died. As you might imagine, that happens pretty often around here. It bugs me that Santiago got everybody stirred up over nothing. This is a lot of ridiculous nonsense. My patients are very upset.”

“But what about the missing medication?” I asked.

“I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation,” she said. “Either that, or Santiago made that part up.”

With a hiss, Percy's door opened, swinging smoothly outward. I stepped back to allow it to complete its full arc.

“Good morning.” Percy grinned up at us from his wheelchair. “Come on in.”

Another question occurred to me and I pointed to the door. “Can these be locked?”

“No.” Debbie shook her head. “If there's ever an emergency, we need unrestricted access to the rooms.”

“And I keep telling them that the doors shouldn't swing outward like that,” Percy said with a glint of humor. “They tell me I should be grateful they don't swing inward. But
they do swing inward if I'm on your side. Who designed this place, anyway? What were they thinking? Don't I keep saying that, Debbie?”

She smiled. “He never misses an opportunity to remind us that Indwell would be much more accessible for its wheelchair-bound residents if the doors opened sideways.” She pantomimed the motion.

“Like on
Star Trek
,” Percy said. “With a
whoosh
. The architects who designed this place could have used help from
Starfleet
's engineers.”

“And with that, I'll leave you two alone,” Debbie said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Come on in,” Percy said. He used two fingers and an elbow to gesture me to follow him. As he rolled deeper into the apartment, I tried not to let my amazement show. A large, central space clearly served as a shared living area for the three men. Two closed doors to my right and one to my left probably led to their individual bedrooms.

“This looks more like a ritzy man-cave than a room in an assisted-living facility,” I said in awe. “I've never seen anything like it.”

Bright, neon beer signs—one in the shape of Texas—stretched across the wide charcoal wall to my left. Directly below the signs sat a red leather sofa that looked as though it had been ripped straight off the set of
Mad Men
. A giant flat-screen TV took up most of the wall opposite.

“Glad you approve,” he said with a smirk. “We pay a hefty premium to live here. It better be nice. Come on in. I had a feeling you'd show up one of these days. How's my girl doing?”

It took me a half second to realize he meant Frances. “She was called down to the police station today.”

He winced. “She's a trooper, that one. I worry more for the cops than I do for her.” He snickered, but I didn't believe him for a second. Using his chin to indicate the sofa, he said, “Have a seat.”

My skirt made squeaky sounds as I settled myself and placed my jacket and purse on the cushion next to me. I revised
my original assessment. Not leather. Tight vinyl. Attractive, yes. Comfortable, no. “This place is . . .”

“Not bad for a prison cell?”

In spite of myself, I laughed. “I'd hardly call this a prison,” I said, giving the apartment another quick perusal.

“Might as well be iron bars and bolts on the doors. I can't leave.”

“Of course you can.”

“Really?” The word came out sharply, but his expression flashed with melancholy, rather than anger. “Where would I go?”

I didn't have an answer for that.

“I have everything I need here. And, sure, the place is attractive enough. But make no mistake—I'm an inmate. In a prison of my own making.”

Again, I didn't know what to say. “Given the circumstances, this is a beautiful place to live.”

“I won't argue with you,” he said. “I got lucky getting Kyle as a roommate. Before he came to Indwell, I had one of those smaller spots. You probably passed them on your way in.”

“I didn't get to see inside any of them.”

“They aren't bad, really. Compact and serviceable.” He lifted both hands, ever so slightly. “But no comparison to this place. Kyle's family is well-off. Really well-off. And because they feel guilty about leaving him here, they spare no expense. He and I hit it off, and he asked if I'd like to room with him. I'm no dummy. I jumped at the chance.”

“How did Gus get in on the arrangement?”

“He's even more well-off than Kyle's family,” Percy said. “This apartment has three bedrooms, three baths. I occupy the room on that side.” He gestured with his head toward the lone door. “Gus and Kyle are opposite.”

“How did you manage to snag the side by yourself? Kyle didn't call dibs on it?”

“My room's the smallest of the three. Kyle's and Gus's are a lot bigger.”

“You said Kyle's family feels guilty and spares no expense.”
Judging from my surroundings, Percy wasn't kidding. “So why not keep him home? Wouldn't a full-time caregiver be a better option?”

“Kyle wanted out of the house just like any other kid his age would. His physical capabilities may be limited, but that doesn't keep him from wanting to be independent. He insisted on living on his own, but his parents are overprotective and didn't want him to leave. They settled on a compromise. This is it. Those of us in this wing are allowed visitors all day, all night. And Kyle makes good use of that privilege, trust me.”

I wanted to get back to talking about Gus, but his offhand remark piqued my interest. “I had to sign in, up front,” I said.

“Yeah, during regular hours, they try to have everyone sign in. But it's pretty loose. Those of us in the East Wing are allowed visitors even when the rest of the place is locked down for the night. Those visitors do have to sign in with security. But except for Kyle's occasional girlfriends, hardly anybody takes advantage of that policy.”

“I'm sure the police are checking all visitor logs,” I said.

“Yeah, I heard somebody talking about that. Santiago, probably. He seems to know everything.”

“Speaking of Santiago . . .” I shifted on the sofa and was rewarded with more squeaking. “I heard that more of your insulin is missing.”

He sighed, clearly annoyed by the question. “So they tell me.”

“You haven't checked for yourself?”

“Of course I did. As soon as they allowed me back in my room this morning. But at that point the cops had already taken all my medication away. Now I only have the cops' word on it. They did an inventory of everything they took from the apartment and made me go over it, line by line, with one of the nurses. I wish I would've known about the empty insulin containers before the cops got here; I'd have yanked them out of sight.”

“You would have tampered with evidence?”

“Who says it's evidence?” His gaze was hot. “But even if it is, would I do it to protect Frances? You bet your life, I would.”

A tiny voice whispered in the back of my brain:
Or protect yourself.

“Which nurse went over the inventory with you?”

“That young girl with the pretty smile. Tara.”

“Okay, so walk me through this one more time,” I said. “Gus was alive Sunday morning before you and Frances left for church, right?”

“Yes. He was storming around with a bottle of scotch in one hand and a drinking glass in the other. Being belligerent, as always.”

“And arguing with Frances.”

“Bingo.” Percy curled his lips to the side. “She couldn't have picked a worse day to mix it up with him.”

“I understand he was found in bed, though. Did he usually go back to sleep in the morning?”

“Sometimes, yeah, when he wasn't feeling well. Gus had episodes—heart problems, I think—and would lie down until his dizziness passed. That was pretty normal for him.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Could I take a look around his room?” I asked. “And maybe yours, too? If that isn't too much of an imposition.”

“Be my guest.”

“They haven't sealed his room off?”

“Nope. The police said they got everything they needed for now.” Percy pointed. “That one,” he said, indicating the door to my left. He followed behind as I made my way over. He was right: There were no warning signs posted, no seal across the door, nothing to indicate any police involvement whatsoever.

“You're sure we're allowed in here?” I asked.

“The cops loaded a couple bags of Gus's belongings and carted them out. Not much, as far as I could tell. Before they left the last time, the detective in charge—a cheeky young woman, if you ask me—told us that they were finished for
now and if they had any further questions for any of us, they'd be in touch.”

I frowned at the knob, then remembered that every door in this facility could also be opened automatically. I stretched my sweater sleeve to cover my fist and pushed the silver plate on the wall to activate the mechanism.

Percy laughed as the door swung wide. “If you're so worried about fingerprints, you should grab a pair of latex gloves. There are boxes of them everywhere in this place.”

“I'll try to remember that,” I said and stepped in.

While not nearly as attractive as the apartment's living room, Gus's quarters gave off the same spacious vibe. Except for an impressive collection of heavy-framed oil paintings that took up most of the room's three pale blue walls, the place was barren. Stark. Cold. Only the wide picture window and its panoramic view of Indwell's grounds offered any sign of life.

“Let's hope they didn't take everything,” Percy said as he pulled up next to me.

The hospital bed near the window had been stripped down to its forest-green mattress, and a barren IV tree stood nearby. Gus's antique highboy dresser was devoid of personality. No knickknacks, no personal items. A matching low dresser with a mirror and two contemporary armoire cabinets offered more of the same. The nightstand held a lamp and a box of facial tissues. Other than that, there was little in the room beyond a recliner and a dorm-sized refrigerator.

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “Except for the pictures on the walls, this place has been completely cleared out.”

“Nah, this is normal. Exactly the way Gus liked it.” Percy zoomed past me, toward the armoires. “He was a clean freak.”

“So I've heard,” I said.

“Don't let the cleanliness fool you, though,” Percy said. “He may have been fastidious, but he was a hoarder. He's got more stuff collected in his cabinets than Kyle and I put together.”

“No way,” I said.

Percy tilted his chin to indicate the nearer armoire. “Open up one of those and you'll see,” he said. “Gus was a master at fitting twenty things into a space built to hold two. It's all neat and tidy in there, believe me. But it's jam-packed. Kyle showed me some of Gus's special hiding spots once when he wasn't around.”