“I positively didn't say it was Dana. I'm not sure who was inside the room with him, but I insisted it be fumigated by the janitor that evening. As for Dana, she's a smart girl. I doubt she'd get involved with that joker. She was the only person who could locate the fake medication we needed for this summer's next production.” As Myriam finished speaking, the waitress told her the table was ready.
“Hold up. What did you say about fake medication?” My heart nearly stopped when she said the word fake. “Tell me exactly what that means.”
Myriam explained that she'd been searching for various sorts of pills and medication bottles for a future hospital scene. Since Dana was responsible for props, she'd been assigned the task. Within twenty-four hours, she had various options for Myriam to choose from. Dana had stumbled upon the placebos on a website used by theaters and television shows to locate hard-to-find props. As Myriam left, she turned and said, “So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell! A long farewell, to all my greatness!”
If I remembered properly, that was from Henry VIII. Cardinal Wolsey, an ambitious and arrogant man, had delivered the lines. “Myriam, are you proud of the similarity you just exhibited to a man who supported one of the most abominable kings in English history?”
Myriam stopped short in her path and without turning around to face me directly, replied, “You always go for the obvious, Kellan, don't you? Perhaps you need to convince the tiny, little, miniscule, uneducated gray cells in your brain to look past the words being said and find the true meaning.”
As she continued walking away, Eleanor appeared. “She's got a point, big brother. Sometimes you have tunnel vision.”
“Why are you supporting her?” I asked feeling my frustration levels increase.
Eleanor's shoulders shrugged. “She's a paying guest. You're not. I know where my bread's buttered.”
I closed my eyes humming loudly as a way to distract myself from exploding at the next person who said anything rude, mean, or negative to me. When I opened them, Emma stood in front of me. “Are you coming, Daddy? Nana D complained you always take too long. She sent me back inside and told me to tell you something.”
“What's that, baby girl?” I braced for a litany of Nana D's ridiculous comments.
“She said, 'Tell your father he owes Mr. Paddington an apology. And as punishment for making unsuptions, there won't be any dessert again for two weeks.' What did you do now, Daddy? How come you always get yourself into trouble when I leave the room?” Emma led me outside and to the parking lot so I could drive home and forget the whole evening. “I'm tired, and I have school tomorrow. You really shouldn't keep me out so late next time, Daddy.”
After buckling Emma in the back seat, I shut the door and opened my own. A large, menacing man stood nearby looking in my direction. “You Kellan Ayrwick.”
I nodded.
“I've got a message for you.” He reached into his pocket.
I gulped and backed up against Emma's car door. “From whom?”
“She says you should never hang up on her again. Nor should you turn off your cell phone. The line should be kept open for whenever the boss wants to speak with you.”
My mother-in-law had tracked me down at the diner. Within an hour. She had contacts nearby who were willing to do her dirty work. “I'll take that under advisement.” I felt my legs weaken but was confident Cecilia would never do anything to hurt Emma. Like killing me in front of my daughter.
“I know the boss pretty well, Mr. Ayrwick. She only warns someone once. I believe you've exhausted that count a few times. I suggest you do more than take it under advisement.” Although he disappeared into the darkness, I could hear his heavy shoes pounding the pavement and a bubble bursting in his mouth from the gum he'd taken out of his pocket.
Chapter 17
“I barely slept last night, Nana D. It's a good thing I don't have to teach any classes today. Maybe I'll swing by Danby Landing after tracking down Timothy. I need to know what he and his mother talked about just before she died.” Nightmares about my mother-in-law's henchman had haunted me nearly every hour while I'd laid in bed trying to forget our encounter in the parking lot. My restless body twitched every time a tree branch scratched the roof or the wind whistled through the eaves. Sleeping in the attic bedroom had both its benefits and its downsides. Last night was definitely a downside.
“Good boy, that's the priority for today. I'll ask Eustacia to come by for tea at three o'clock. It'll do her some good to get out of that mansion. It's sucking her dry worse than an evening listening to your father talk about himself. And that old bat needs to quiz me for the debate on Friday.” Nana D was familiarizing herself with what type of jobs people held in Wharton County and what policies had changed over the last decade under Mayor Grosvalet and Councilman Stanton.
After agreeing to meet them for tea, I dropped Emma off at school and drove to campus to experience my weekly harassment with Myriam. I was able to convince her to let Arthur remain working until the end of the King Lear run, then we'd re-evaluate his position at the end of the semester. She ended the meeting quickly, citing the need to complete some research. I was pleasantly surprised by her more hospitable attitude, but it only reminded me she was likely sugaring me up to execute a sneak attack as all spiders do.
With my work activities on track, it meant I had time for a run. There were a few hidden trails scattered throughout the western section of Wellington Park which also happened to be close to the Second Chance Reflections rehabilitation facility where Timothy was recuperating. I'd never been there before, but a few people I'd gone to college with had sought their help after turning to drugs and alcohol. It had been built in the 1970s after an excessive amount of addictions cropped up in Wharton County. We'd been a dry county for most of our existence, then granted licenses to a few establishments shortly after World War II ended. Unfortunately, as the years passed, the county government lost control of the situation and citizens turned to dangerous substances as distractions once the financial crisis hit.
Timothy had voluntarily checked himself in, but it was still up to him whether he accepted visitors. I stopped at the front desk in the reception area before beginning my run. “I'd like to request a brief visit with Timothy Paddington. He's not expecting me, but his family asked that I talk to him for a few minutes today,” I said to an older gentleman named Buddy who'd dressed in a comfortable-looking cardigan, beige t-shirt, and brown corduroys.
“Has he put you on the approved list of visitors?” Buddy had a gentleness about him that made me think I stood a chance of getting inside.
“Probably not, but it's important. His mother passed away recently, and his family is worried Timothy's taking her death very hard. His aunt and uncle aren't doing well themselves. They're in their seventies and having some health problems.” I appealed to Buddy's humanity and the need to protect the patients. Perhaps it would win him over.
“Timothy's a good lad, but he's struggling. I knew the boy back in high school. I was the school doctor and checked him out a few times. Now I'm here trying to make ends meet. Not easy. This town is all messed up when it comes to protecting its senior citizens,” Buddy said veering off into an entirely different topic.
I needed to get him focused before I lost my chance to get inside. “I wasn't aware you knew Timothy. He's had a rough life from what I understand.”
“He played on the football team. Quarterback in his senior year,” Buddy said with a nostalgic gleam in his eye. He told me more about Timothy's days back at Braxton High School, explained how tough it was to grow up in the Paddington family, and offered his sincere hopes that Timothy could wrestle with his current demons. Buddy agreed to check if Timothy would grant me a few minutes even though it was against the facility's rules for random guests who weren't on the list to be admitted.
“I'm grateful, Buddy. I know his family would be, too.” As Buddy walked away, I remembered seeing him in my first year of high school. I didn't pla
y any sports, but I also thought he had retired that year. He'd probably completed his years of service to the high school, collected his pension, and found a new part-time career to earn some additional income. Like most other places across the country, teachers and school administrators weren't paid properly and had difficult times surviving after retiring from their positions.
While Buddy disappeared behind a locked entrance to the main part of the facility, I perused a pamphlet about Second Chance Reflections. I found some information noting how they were funded both from government assistance and private contributions. I also stumbled upon a few metrics I thought might be helpful for Nana D to use in her campaign plans that would benefit her and the patients at Second Chance Reflections. I slipped the pamphlet into my back pocket as Buddy returned to the reception area.
“You're in luck. Timothy needs your help. Follow me, and I'll get you set up in one of our visitation rooms. The South Room has the best view of the gardens. They're not maintained well, but at least you're not staring at the back of the bus station or the parking lot.” Buddy verified my identification, entered me into the system, and navigated us through a narrow hallway. Although the facility was clean and organized, the décor hadn't changed since the 1980s. I suspected the funding they received from the government didn't cover the look-and-feel, given it wasn't a large amount of money to begin with. I was certain Nana D could convince the garden club to donate a few hours of time each week to spruce up what looked like it was once a grand landscape.
When I arrived at the South Room, Buddy opened the door for me and returned to the reception area. Timothy greeted me while standing near two wooden chairs and a small, lime-green Formica-covered table with a few chips in the surface. The room was no more than forty square feet and looked remarkably similar to the county prison's visitor rooms minus the bars and glass partition. Its walls were a dimly painted white and littered with scratch marks. Several water marks stained the ceiling. I wouldn't exactly call it a dump but give it another year or two without any tender loving care, and that's where it would end up.
Timothy looked about the same as when I'd briefly noticed him at Paddington's Play House on the day Gwendolyn was murdered. His face was pale and withdrawn, he was at least a month overdue for a haircut, and his clothes were a size larger than his body required. He'd apparently lost weight, likely from his drug addiction, and couldn't afford a higher-end rehabilitation clinic since he'd also suffered with a gambling and debt problem. I'd seen a picture of him as president of Paddington Enterprises a few years ago when Lara Bouvier had done a special report for the local news network. It was like a whole different man occupied the room with me now. Unfortunately, not in a good way.
“Kellan, I was surprised to hear you came to visit me,” Timothy said shaking my hand and telling me to take a seat. “I know your parents, but I haven't seen you since you were a toddler.”
“I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me. I told Buddy that your family asked me to visit, which is true, but not the whole reason.” I folded my hands on the table and smiled at him. This wasn't going to be an easy conversation.
“Buddy's been taking care of me. I didn't want the royal treatment. I screwed up in the last year, and part of my recovery includes living like a regular guy. I can't expect people to go out of their way because I'm a Paddington.” Timothy's legs must have been shaking underneath the table because I could feel the heavy piece of furniture vibrating. “Before sharing why you came, how's my family?”
I wasn't sure which members he cared about, so I told him about the funeral and my interactions with Millard and Eustacia. “I know they both are worried about you.”
“Aunt Eustacia is one in a million. She's a tough cookie, but that woman has been there for me more times than I care to remember,” Timothy noted clutching the end of the table with both hands hard enough to turn his knuckles a blotchy mix of white and red.
I wasn't sure if I should jump in with my questions or let him talk for a few minutes. He was nervous, and his eyes darted around the room a lot. Was he going cold turkey or gradually decreasing the amount of drug usage to wean him off everything? “Do you want to tell me about how you ended up here? I'm not family, but I can listen if there's anything you need to get off your chest.” I didn't know him all that well yet he clearly was suffering from everything swirling around him.
“That'd be great, you're a good guy. Not many people would come visit me here. I chose Second Chance Reflections for two reasons. One, I'm broke and they were the cheapest place available. Two, no one in my family would visit me here. It's not like I don't ever want to see them again, but… well, I've come to realize part of the reason I'm so messed up is because of my family.”
Timothy explained that he'd been placed under a microscope ever since he was a child. His parents expected him to be a perfect child, perfect businessman, and a perfect family man. He'd spent so much time focused on meeting Charles and Gwendolyn's expectations that he'd forgotten his own needs until he couldn't handle the pressure anymore. It sounded a lot like Millard's story, and that's when I realized how lucky I had it in my own family. Despite feeling pressure from time to time, I'd never felt as if I'd been scrutinized so closely I needed some sort of medication or drugs to escape. I might've run all the way across the country to disappear from them, but that was different. At least that's what I told myself to get by each day.
“The year my father retired, I was on top of the world. But it soon went downhill. Every minute became consumed by the family business. I worked sixteen-hour days and traveled all over the world never knowing what time zone I was in. I had no one by my side to have a better work-life balance. I began sneaking out for thrills just to feel something shocking and different.” Timothy stood, walked to the window, and stared into the desolate garden. “It started out as making wagers on silly things. Even when I lost, I still felt alive. That's when I fell in with the wrong crowd and started using too many drugs that I eventually lost track of night and day. My father convinced the Board of Directors to put me on temporary leave insisting I couldn't come back to work until I finished therapy.”
“Is that what led you to finally checking into Second Chance Reflections last week?” I asked knowing it wasn't the full picture since it'd had been almost a year between the two events.
“No, I escaped for a while. Spent all my money,” he said turning back to look at me. I could see him visibly shaking. “Ever since I stopped the drugs last week, my body is always freezing cold. Raw.”
“You're doing the right thing, Timothy. You've got to get sober and find a better path in life. There's a lot of time left in your future to make things right again,” I added thinking he might have a son to get to know.
“Exactly. I promised my mother the day she died that I'd fix things.” Timothy wrestled with his conscience while rocking in his seat. I could feel the pain and fear emanating off of him.
Although I wanted to help him, my purpose for the visit was to determine if he could be Brad's father or whether he might've killed his mother. “What did you talk about at the theater?” I asked.
Timothy clenched his fist. “It was the night before when everything changed. I only stopped by the theater to say goodbye. I had already contacted Second Chance Reflections to check myself in.”
Timothy explained what had happened the weekend before Gwendolyn passed away. He'd gone to Philadelphia and gotten outrageously wrecked. When he was walking back to his hotel after drinking in a bar, he stepped off the curb and was nearly hit by a car. Someone tried to help him, but he pushed the Good Samaritan away and berated her for no reason other than he was plastered. He woke up the next morning sleeping half on the sidewalk and half in the street covered in mud, littered with garbage, and lying next to a drugged-out teenager. His wallet and shoes were missing, and he had a large open wound on his forearm. “I'd hit rock bottom. I went home that Saturday evening to tend to my cut, sober up, and apologize to my mother. I told her
that I was planning to get help.”
“What time was this?” I asked trying to figure out the chronology of events.
“Late. She'd just gotten home from a friend's place. It might have been your grandmother's. I was still out of it, but I remember most of the conversation. I cried in my mother's arms for the first time since I was a kid. I didn't even cry at my father's funeral. I was high on cocaine and pot the day he was buried.” Timothy shielded his face with his hands to hide the shame of the past. He explained how grateful he was to have that last chance to make things right between them before she died.
I realized by the way he spoke, Timothy was under the impression his mother had a heart attack and died from natural causes. I didn't want to be the one to tell him she was murdered. I would confirm with Sheriff Montague to be sure she'd never told him about the results of the autopsy. Timothy hadn't seen anyone else, and the sheriff smartly kept the news out of the papers until she could find the killer.
“What did your mother think about you getting treatment?” I wanted him to focus on something positive, but I also needed to know how they'd left things.
“She was supportive. We had such a great conversation that night. Mother even told me she would put me in her will again once I proved I could get back on the right track. I didn't care about the money, I wanted to fix things with her. She's my mother, and I screwed up too many times.”
I nodded at Timothy. He knew he wasn't in the old will, which meant he'd no financial reason to kill her. “I'm sure that night meant a lot to her. Do you… I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but do you know if she ever got around to putting you in a new will?”
Timothy shook his head. “I don't know. I left her house shortly afterward and went home to pack my stuff so I could come here the next day. We didn't speak again until the following afternoon.”
Broken Heart Attack Page 19