The Death in the Willows (27 page)

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.”

“Is that right?” Rocco looked impassively at the man bent over the desk. “Exactly where were you?”

The questioning continued as Rocco quietly probed at the angry aide. It seemed to go nowhere, and Bea realized it was fruitless. If anyone in the hospital had taken Fabian Bunting to PT, they were not admitting it—to anyone.

When Maginacolda started for the door, she asked him, “Why aren't you out on strike?”

“Hell, I'm shop steward for the bona fide local.”

“I don't understand.”

“My union always used to represent the workers here until Rustman and that black chick carded everyone and called an election. They'll wise up and we'll be back in the saddle soon.”

“I see.”

The aide left the room and Rocco shrugged as he closed the last file.

The Wentworth home, Nutmeg Hill, was perched on a promontory overlooking the Connecticut River on the outskirts of Murphysville. Stands of pine surrounded the house on three sides and were parted by a long, winding drive that meandered up from the highway. A fieldstone patio at the rear of the house overlooked the river and was surrounded by a profusion of carefully tended spring flowers. Lyon and Bea had discovered the run-down house several years ago while hiking in the woods. They had purchased the decrepit dwelling and restored it with tender love. The old house's casual mixture of early American and contemporary furnishings enhanced the comfortable aura.

A large window in Lyon's study above the patio gave the impression that his desk floated above the river. Banks of bookcases and large, worn leather chairs completed the furnishings in his workroom.

Lyon was oblivious of the view as he hunched over the typewriter by the window.

He wasn't there.

He walked with his Wobblies. His monsters had made their way to a wooded place and now sat before a mountain stream to rest. The long tongues of his two friends lolled from the sides of their faces as they looked toward their creator with lopsided grins. Their enemy had been defeated. The Waldoons had once again been sent into exile from which they would undoubtedly return in the next book—it was a time of peace, a time of renewal; and yet the Wobblies were elated, and Lyon viewed them with satisfaction.

The tiny knock on the door dispelled the quiet. Lyon turned from the typewriter as his eyes refocused and he returned to reality.

“Who?”

“A very depressed lady.” Bea stepped into the room and slumped into a leather chair. “The day started off lousy and has gone downhill since.”

“Woeful Bea.”

“KNOCK IT OFF, WENTWORTH.”

“Your hearing aid battery is low again.”

Bea fumbled in her ear for the small device, turned the volume up, and reinserted the instrument. “I wish I hadn't heard a word all day.”

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“I'm sorry to interrupt your work, but I would like you to hear what happened.” She had put her thoughts in order on the drive home and now presented them in a clear and concise manner. As she talked, Lyon from time to time asked a quiet question or nodded. His frown deepened.

He gave a sigh when she finished. “What's Rocco going to do next?”

“He's ordered an autopsy over the nursing home's objections. We expect that it will show cardiac arrest due to the scalding. He's a little unsure as to what step to take next. There isn't any definite reason to believe that it's murder, but what bothers me is that no one will admit putting her into the tub. Also, what about the missing chart entry that so mysteriously appeared later?”