W Is for Wasted (36 page)

“Earlier you talked about suggestibility. Are you saying that if Terrence was convinced he was on daily doses of Glucotace, the symptoms he experienced might have been, what . . . psychosomatic?”

“That’s not a term much in use these days. We’ve come to recognize that the effort to identify disorders as purely physical or purely mental is increasingly obsolete. Many physical illnesses have mental components that determine their onset, presentation, and susceptibility to treatment. Terrence Dace’s symptoms were real. The question under consideration has to do with their origin. That’s something I can’t help you with.”

“Understood,” I said. I realized I was fresh out of places to take the conversation and I was kicking myself for not bringing in a list.

“What else can I tell you?”

“I guess that’s about it.” I hadn’t pressed him on anything and it was clear I’d never make it as a hard-hitting investigative reporter. We’d covered the subjects superficially, but without anything specific in mind, I was reluctant to take up any more of his time. “Is there anything you want me to tell his daughter?”

“Convey my condolences. I can understand how devastating this must be.” He leaned back in his chair. “As long as I have you here, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you something.”

“Sure.”

“When Terrence left the program, he was asked to turn in any medications in his possession.”

“So I heard,” I said. At that very moment, I had the self-same vial of pills in my bag. My impulse was to avert my eyes, but I held his gaze, filling my head with innocent thoughts instead of the kind that were actually floating around in there.

“He’d just refilled a prescription. That’s one way we ensure conformity, insofar as we can do that with patients who aren’t under observation twenty-four hours day. According to the clinic pharmacist, he’d just picked up a week’s worth—fourteen pills. If you have any idea what he might have done with them, we’d love to know.”

My little lying self kicked in without missing a beat, an impulse predicated on the notion that it’s foolish to give up information that might prove useful at a later date. “No clue,” I said. “Do you know what the medication was?”

“I made a point of finding out. From a community-health perspective, it’s dangerous—worse than dangerous—it’s potentially fatal to have unidentified chemical compounds circulating among the homeless when so many are drug and alcohol addicted.”

I said, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the morning he was found, someone walked off with everything he owned. Some of the items have turned up, but most of his personal belongings are gone. Maybe the pill bottle was in his cart.”

“I hope somebody had the presence of mind to toss it in the trash,” he said. “Addicts will knock back just about anything if there’s a chance of getting high, and most don’t worry about the hazards. If his medication turns up, would you let me know?”

“Of course,” I said. I glanced down at my shoulder bag and spotted the parking ticket from the lot outside. I pulled it out. “Could I ask you to validate this?”

“Certainly. Hang on a second.” He opened his pencil drawer and rooted around for a moment, finally coming up with a small booklet of stamps about the size of those the post office issues. I passed the ticket across the desk. He checked his watch and then tore out three small stamps that he pasted on the back. “These are fifteen minutes each, so you should be amply covered.”

“Thanks.”

He handed me the ticket. As I slid it back into my bag, I felt a quick jolt. I’d seen one just like it when I was pulling the crap out of Pete’s glove compartment. I looked sharply at Reed, but the phone rang just then.

He picked up. “This is Dr. Reed.” He listened for a moment and looked up at me. “Can I call you back on this? I have someone in my office.”

He listened. “Five minutes,” he said. As he hung up, he shot me an apologetic smile as though embarrassed to have to hurry me out the door.

I lifted a finger. “You’re the one who called me.”

“Come again?”

“June or July. Somebody called me looking for R. T. Dace. I don’t know how my number came to light, but I had a brief conversation with a doctor somebody. I didn’t catch the name at the time, but I recognized your voice just now.”

He shook his head. “Don’t think so. Not that I recall. I don’t believe we ever had a contact number for him. It might have been someone in the lab.”

“Oh. Well, maybe so. It stuck in my mind, but I guess it could have been anyone.”

I got up and slung the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I better let you get back to work. Thanks for your time.”

“I’m not sure how much comfort I’ve provided. If the family have any other questions, I’d encourage them to get in touch. For peace of mind if nothing else.” He stood and we shook hands across the desk. This time his grip was ice cold and his palm was damp. “Again, my condolences. I liked him.”

“I appreciate your saying so,” I replied. I held up the booklet. “Thanks for this.”

“My pleasure.”

He smiled and resumed his seat, probably already thinking about the call he’d be returning as soon as I was out of earshot.

It wasn’t until I reached the door that I hesitated. “One more question if you wouldn’t mind. I know this is out of line and if you can’t or don’t want to answer, please say so.”

He watched me and then made a little gesture, indicating his willingness.

“You said you checked on his medications. Was he taking Glucotace or the placebo?”

There was a silence during which he regarded me without expression. I didn’t think he’d answer and I could see him weigh the issue in his mind. Finally, he said, “I don’t see any harm in telling you. The placebo.”

In the corridor, I paused for a short debate. Instead of heading for the exit, I returned to the clinic office. No sign of Greta. I reached over and picked up the appointment book, leafing back through the weeks as though I had every right. August: nothing. Tuesday, July 12: Pete’s name was penned into the 1:00
P.M
. slot.

Walking back to the parking lot, I gave careful consideration to the exchange. Dace had signed himself out of St. Terry’s in June, after which he’d fled to Los Angeles. Dr. Reed had called me in hopes of finding him. Now he dismissed the incident. Plausible deniability is the term, I believe. Covering his ass was my take on it. What he couldn’t disguise was the shift from a warm to an icy hand. Slick as he was, he couldn’t control the physiology of fear.

•   •   •

I gave Ruthie’s front bell a twist and waited. She came to the door in a sweatshirt and jeans with a scarf knotted around her head. She had a dust rag in hand. “Woo. Come in. I could use a break.”

She stepped back and I moved into the foyer, saying, “I see you’re getting life in order.”

She closed the door behind me and I followed her down the hall. “I don’t know about that. I have two closets emptied, which I consider a triumph. I don’t suppose you have any use for forty-six neckties. I gave him every one of those and he wore the same two all the time.”

“No neckties. Sorry ’bout that.”

“Too bad. Some are nice. You got my message.”

“I was off to an appointment or I’d have picked up right then.”

“I hope I didn’t sound too cryptic.”

“I was properly intrigued.”

We’d reached the kitchen by then, which was much as it had been when I’d seen it last. Stacks of boxes, brown paper bags, and plastic bags filled to capacity, the counter littered with odds and ends.

She picked up the sack of birdseed I’d dropped off the day before. She held it in her right hand as though to illustrate a point. “So here’s how this went. I decided I’d fill the bird feeder. That was always Pete’s job, but I thought what the heck. Poor little things must be starving to death. I had a chickadee bang into the window glass yesterday and it about knocked itself out. Anyway, I get into the bag of birdseed and come up with this.”

She pulled her left hand from behind her back and held up a thick stack of bills folded in half and secured with a silver clip. The outermost denomination was a one. “He keeps small bills on the outside,” she said when she saw my look.

“How much?”

“I didn’t count. I figured if he robbed a bank, the cops would want to dust for prints.”

“You don’t really think he robbed a bank.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Didn’t he say he was setting money aside for a cruise?”

“He said whatever sounded good. He never had this much money in his life.”

I stared at her and then stared at the wad of bills.

Sheepishly, she said, “Okay, I did peek just a little bit. The bills on the inside are hundreds. Lots of them.”

She handed me the money clip. I sat down at the table and riffled the corners of the bills. “I’d say two or three thousand dollars.”

“That’s my guess.”

She took out saucers and coffee cups and filled both from a thermos. She put a small pitcher of milk on the table and set the sugar bowl close by. Then she sat down. “You know what bugs me? The bill collectors were hounding him. And I mean,
hounding
him. A lot of it was nickel-and-dime stuff. I’m not saying the bills weren’t overdue, but some were in the two- to three-hundred-dollar range. There wasn’t anything major, except maybe his back rent. It burns my ass to think how many debts he could have paid off with money like that.”

“You know how he was. I’m sure in his mind, paying bills wasn’t any fun. That’s why he avoided it. I’m sure he felt better saving for a trip, which was at least something positive.”

“Oh, right, and thanks a bunch, pal. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that plan.”

“If it’s any comfort, he probably hadn’t booked anything.”

“Be thankful for small favors.”

I put the clip of money on the table between us. “What are you thinking the source for this is?”

“You go first.”

“No, you first. You were married to him.”

“I think he was extorting money from someone. Mid-July, he told me business was looking up. He had some kind of job he thought might net him a paycheck. I think ‘a handsome chunk of change’ is the phrase he used.”

“Well, he did pick up a job running surveillance in Reno. That’s the work he asked Dietz to cover for him.”

Ruthie thought about that while the two of us stared at the wad of money. “Do you really believe that’s where it came from?”

“No.”

Ruthie actually laughed. “I appreciate your honesty. I thought chances were good that it was hush money of some kind. Who was the victim? Do you have any idea?”

“Pete had only one job in the last six months as far as we could tell. There are two or three people associated with that client, and of those, only one has money—a doctor out at UCST with something to hide. I was in his office less than an hour ago and there’s something off. Somehow Pete picked up a whiff of it and cashed in. I can’t prove it, of course, but I’d lay odds.”

“Honestly, I’m not saying I approve. All I’m saying is if my husband was a crook, I wish he’d been better at money management,” she said.

“With Pete, there’s always something to forgive,” I said.

“So what do you advise? You think I should go to the police?”

“And say what? At this point you really don’t know anything for sure. That’s part of what I’m trying to work out myself. I do think you have a point about preserving fingerprints. As long as you don’t intend to spend the money, I’d leave it alone. Hide it somewhere good.”

“Oh, you bet.” She propped her chin on her fist. “I wasn’t sure you knew about his tendency to play fast and loose. I wouldn’t have said anything myself, but you understand where he was coming from.”

“I knew him in the good old days and he wasn’t exactly a model citizen back then. Sweet guy,” I added in haste.

“I can’t tell you how much I miss him.” Her smile was pained. “I guess one of these days I’ll get used to it.”

When I arrived home, there was a parking spot right in front, which I took as a good sign. As I rounded the corner, moving into the backyard, I saw Henry in the act of closing his garage doors. He turned and picked up his four heavy plastic grocery bags, two in each hand.

“I thought you’d already done your grocery shopping.”

“These are for Ed. I’m trying five different brands of wet food to see which he prefers. He turns his nose up at beef. He says cats don’t eat cows.”

“Opinionated little guy, isn’t he? When I came home Tuesday, he popped in for a visit, just to have a look around. I was surprised he was out.”

“Ed was out on Tuesday? I don’t think so. He was in when I left and he was in when I came home.”

“That’s because I put him in.”

“How’d he manage to get out?”

“Beats me. Cats are mysterious. He might have transmogrified himself and slipped through the cracks like smoke,” I said.

“You think he’s capable of doing that?”

“How do I know? This is only the second or third cat I’ve met in my life.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on him,” he said. “How was your meeting with Dr. Reed? I hope he put your mind at ease.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. There’s still a big chunk of the story missing and he’s not the one who’s going to fill me in. At any rate, talking to him was a good suggestion. I guess I should thank you for browbeating me into it.”

“I’ll take full credit.”

As soon as I let myself into the studio, I went straight to the phone and called Ruthie. When she answered, I said, “Hey, Ruthie. Kinsey Millhone again.”

“Forget the last name. You’re the only Kinsey I know.”

“Sorry about that. Force of habit. Quick question I should have asked you while I was there. The guy who bought Pete’s Fairlane pulled the junk out of the map pockets and the glove compartment. Do you still have that plastic bag?”

“I’m looking at it. I was just about to go through it. I need the proof-of-insurance card so I can call Allstate and cancel the coverage.”

“Could you check and see if there’s a parking ticket in there? Not a citation—from a pay lot. It’d be an ivory color with pale green stickers on the back.”

“Hang on. I’m putting the receiver down, so don’t go away.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m turning the bag upside down, shaking everything out on the counter,” she called. “Ick. There’s a dead bug. What the hell
is
that thing?”

“Take your time,” I said.

She came back on the line. “Good news. I found a savings passbook I didn’t know we had. Okay, here. I’m looking at a ticket from UCST with stickers on the back.”

“Is there a date-and-time stamp?”

“Says July 12. Machine stamped at twelve forty-five
P.M
. when it was issued, but that’s it. No time stamp going out or the machine would have eaten it.”

“Hold on to that, okay? I’ll pop over there first chance I get and pick it up.”

“No problem.”

I trotted up the spiral stairs to the loft, where I unzipped my all-purpose dress and stepped out of it. Then I stripped off my pantyhose with a sigh of relief. I pulled on my usual workaday rags and went downstairs again.

There was a knock at the door and when I opened it, there stood Anna. She wore jeans and a blue knit top that made her blue eyes electric. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

I stepped back, inviting her in. “Sit anywhere you like.”

She chose a kitchen stool. I moved around the counter to the other side so we were facing each other. I was aware that I was putting a barrier between us, but it felt appropriate. Given her demeanor, I wasn’t sure how cozy this chat was going to be. I’d been irritated with her. Now it was payback time.

She said, “I called Ethan to give him Henry’s number so he’d know where I was. He has questions.”

“And what might those be?”

“Not for you. Ethan thinks I should talk to Daddy’s doctor directly. Henry says you have his phone number.”

“Dr. Reed wasn’t his physician. He’s in charge of the research program your father was enrolled in at one point.”

“I still want to talk to him if it’s all the same to you.”

“May I say one thing first?”

“Say anything you like.”

“Your father was scared to death of Dr. Reed. He thought the test drug was killing him and that’s why he dropped out of the trial. I believe he was right. His friends are convinced of it, too, but of course Dr. Reed won’t own up to that. According to him, your father was incapable of adhering to the guidelines and the clinic gave him the boot.”

“Why would he say that if it wasn’t true?”

“He has an agenda of his own. He came up with a proposal about a drug he thought would be effective in treating addicts. Now it looks like he’s being paid big bucks for a theory that isn’t panning out.”

“Why should I take your word for it? You say Daddy changed his will because he was pissed off at us, like it’s our fault and we should just suck it up and let you have everything. I can see how that serves your purposes, but we’re getting screwed.”

“I don’t have a purpose except to see that his wishes are carried out.”

“But you never met him. Isn’t that what you said?”

“That’s correct.”

“So you don’t know what was going on in his mind.”

“That’s true.”

“How do you know he wasn’t suffering from dementia? Ethan thinks he could have been delusional or confused.”

“And Ethan’s opinion is based on what?”

“The crazy way he behaved. He was mixed up or unbalanced or
something
.”

“Oh, I’m getting this. You’d like to think your father was mentally incompetent because that would invalidate the will. You’re hoping Dr. Reed will back you up.”

“That makes as much sense as your claim. If that medication made him sick, why couldn’t it have affected his mental state?”

“Always possible,” I said.

“So how do you know Dr. Reed wasn’t trying to help? How do you know my father wouldn’t be alive today, if he’d done as he was told?”

“I don’t know that. Nor do you. You want to talk to Dr. Reed, I can’t stop you, but I can tell you right now it’s a bad idea.”

I crossed to the desk, checked my notes, and jotted down Dr. Reed’s number on a slip of paper. I tore the leaf off the scratch pad and presented it to her. “His schedule’s clear for the afternoon, so if you run like a bunny, you can talk to him today. Let me know what he says. I’ll be interested in his response,” I said. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“Get stuffed.”

“You, too.”

I opened the door for her. This time, she’d barely made it through before I banged it shut behind her.

I closed my eyes, fighting for self-control. I was so irritated, I could barely contain myself.

I sat down. I took a deep breath. In a pinch, do something worthwhile, like clean the entire house.

I let my gaze roam and the first thing I saw was Pete’s remaining cardboard box with the big X on the lid, partially covered by the folders I’d decided to keep. Where was I supposed to put the damn thing? I couldn’t leave it where it was. My studio, while charming, is a bit short on storage space. In designing it, Henry had provided any number of nooks and crannies, built-in shelves and drawers, the oddly shaped cabinet here and there where a quirk of construction created a bonus cubby. I keep my possessions to a minimum and even so, I’m occasionally forced to beg a few feet of shelf space in Henry’s garage. I wasn’t going to do that for Pete’s junk. I did a 180-degree survey and finally took my foot and shoved the box to the back of the knee space under my desk.

I glanced down and saw the name Eloise Cantrell written on the scratch pad above Drew’s phone number. Under her name was a secondary note that said CCU.

I could feel my curiosity stirring along with a flicker of interest. The meeting with Dr. Reed had done little to erase the suspicions Dandy and Pearl had raised. Dr. Reed had met with Pete Wolinsky. Eloise Cantrell was the charge nurse in the Cardiac Care Unit at St. Terry’s when Dace had been admitted delirious. Soon afterward, he fled from the hospital and took a bus to Los Angeles. If he’d been frightened of Dr. Reed, she might have known why. Surely, all of these matters were related. I picked up a pen and circled her name. I hadn’t put a date on the note because I’d assumed the call was in error, never dreaming the contact might later seem significant.

I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the telephone directory. I flipped to the S’s in the business listings and ran a finger down the page until I found “Santa Teresa Hospital.” There was a general number listed, a number for the emergency room, one for poison control, and then a few department numbers that could be dialed directly, including administration, billing, patient accounting, human resources, development, and public affairs.

I reached for the handset and punched in the general number. When the operator picked up, I asked to be connected to Cardiac Care. I did this without conscious thought, thinking a plan might work to my detriment. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too well prepared.

The ward clerk answered, saying, “Cardiac Care. This is Pamela.”

“Oh, hi, Pam. Is Eloise working today?”

“She’s in a staff meeting. Can I take a message?”

“Do you know what time her shift ends? She told me, but I can’t remember now what she said.”

“She’s on seven to three.”

“Great. Thanks so much.”

I could tell Pam was ready to take a message, perhaps already making a note of the time on one of those “While You Were Out” slips, but I hung up before she had a chance to quiz me. Now all I had to do was figure out what Eloise looked like.

By 2:30, erring on the side of caution, I parked in the lot across the street from St. Terry’s and made my way through the entrance and into the lobby. I asked for directions to CCU, and a volunteer walked me to the requisite corridor, where, with pointing and gestures, she explained how to proceed. I wondered if I’d ever be nice enough to volunteer for anything. I was hoping not.

When I reached the floor, I spotted a nurse’s aide emerging from a supply room, her arms loaded with clean linens. I flagged her down and asked if Eloise Cantrell was available.

“She’s at the nurse’s station.”

“Is she the little blonde?”

With exaggerated patience, the nurse’s aide said, “Noooo. Eloise is six feet tall and she’s African American.”

After that, it was no trick at all to pick Eloise from among the many white nurses at work. I took a seat in the waiting room within eye shot of the nurse’s station and leafed through an issue of a ladies’ magazine that was only four years out of date. I was impressed by all the uses there were for instant vanilla pudding. This homemaking business, while beyond my modest aspirations, never failed to amaze.

By the time Eloise left work, I was in the same corridor, lagging slightly behind to allow her to exit ahead of me. I followed her out of the building and tagged along in her wake. There were a number of pedestrians in the area, so she wasn’t alerted to my presence. I waited until she turned the corner from Chapel onto Delgado before I closed the gap between us. “Eloise? Is that you?”

She turned, clearly expecting to see a familiar face. Her lips parted as though she meant to speak.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said, pausing in case she wanted to rejoice.

She was dark-skinned, her hair arranged in close lines of head-hugging braids, each of which ended in a sage-green bead that exactly matched her eyes. The hazel irises against the deep chocolate of her complexion was striking. I wouldn’t describe her expression as hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming.

“You called me a few months ago, looking for information about R. T. Dace.”

I waited to see if the name would ring a bell. “I thought you were saying Artie, remember that? But you were talking about Randall Terrence Dace . . . R.T,” I said, framing the initials in air quotes. Still no flash of recognition, so I tried again. “You asked for Mr. Millhone, thinking I was a guy.”

I could tell she remembered because she shut her mouth.

“I was curious where you picked up my name and number.”

I could see her weighing the pros and cons of a reply.

She said, “You were listed in his hospital chart as next of kin.”

“Are you aware he died ten days ago?” I asked.

Her tone was neutral. “I’m not surprised. He was in bad shape when I saw him last.”

“I was hoping you might answer a question or two.”

“Such as?”

“Did you know he’d enrolled in a drug trial?”

She thought about her answer briefly and then said, “Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with the physician in charge?”

“Dr. Reed. Yes.”

“Did he come into CCU while Terrence Dace was a patient?”

“Once as a visitor, yes. What makes you ask?”

“Someone told me Dace signed himself out of CCU without the doctor’s okay.”

Her stare was unyielding.

“Was there any discussion about why?” I asked.

She dropped her gaze, which made her impossible to read.

I plowed on. “His friends tell me he was scared to death of Dr. Reed. I wondered what the problem was. You have any idea?”

She turned and began walking away from me.

I followed six feet behind, my voice embarrassingly plaintive even to my own ears. “I heard Dr. Reed terminated him for noncompliance, but he was sober when he died. No alcohol or drugs in his system, so what was going on?”

She glanced back at me. “I work for the hospital. I’m not affiliated with the university. You want information about Dr. Reed’s work, talk to him. In the meantime, if you’re hoping I’ll sink to the level of rumor and gossip, you’re out of luck.”

She turned on her heel.

I stopped in my tracks and watched her walk away from me.
What
had she said? If I was hoping she’d “sink to the level of
rumor and gossip
”?

“What rumors?” I called after her.

No answer.

•   •   •

I wasn’t giving up on this. Henry had said that if I met with Reed and didn’t feel he’d leveled with me, I should talk to someone else. Obviously, in approaching Eloise Cantrell I was searching too far afield. Anything she knew would be hearsay. I needed someone more directly involved with him. The obvious answer was Mary Lee Bryce. She’d know what was going on behind the scenes. The problem was, I had no way to get to her without going through Willard. I could call her directly, but how would I explain who I was or why I was so interested in the work she did? I only knew about her because Willard had hired Pete. The notion of approaching him created a mild thrill of uneasiness. It wasn’t my job to keep his dealings with Pete a secret from his wife. I wasn’t responsible for protecting either of them. Willard wasn’t my client and Pete was dead. There was a certain, subterranean moral code in play, but surely, I could think of a way around that old thing.