“Maybe? Or you will?”
“I’ll try my best.”
“Should we say anything to Adam?”
“No. The less he knows, the better.”
“All right. Please stop by my house first thing tomorrow morning. Okay?”
“I doubt I’ll know anything by then.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be worrying all night, and you’re the only one I can talk to.”
He nods and glances at his watch. “Shit. I’m late. I’d better go.”
“What about the Goodnight Club?”
“I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.”
It’s dark by the time I leave my office for home. I’m exhausted, so I decide to take a shortcut to my car by taking the path that crosses the corner of the golf course. I hesitate when I see a shadow moving in my direction.
“Who’s there?” I call, fingering my cell phone.
Pastor Sam steps into the feeble light of a street lamp.
“You scared me,” I say.
“I apologize.”
“No need. It’s just, with the death of Nurse Milo . . .”
“Understood. We’re all on edge.”
“Very much so. Still working?”
She fingers her jeweled cross. “In my line of work, the day never ends.”
“Problems with a guest?”
“I suppose. I stopped in to see the Harringtons.”
“How is Kate?”
“Things have been rather difficult of late.”
“Is she ill?”
Pastor Sam tilts her head, regarding me with interest. “You’re aware Gordon Harrington resides with her?”
“Of course.” Actually, I had nearly forgotten. He’s not an official guest and rarely leaves their villa.
“Well, he’s been doing poorly, and it’s draining for a woman of her age. I offer support whenever I can.”
I nod, thinking of the frozen man I haven’t seen in well over a year. I should check in on him, or at least check in with Kate. I’m surprised he’s lived this long. “And how is Gordon this evening?”
“Surviving. Not much more.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is. Hopefully he’ll meet his maker soon. Have a good evening.” The pastor begins to walk away.
“Wait a moment.”
She pauses. “Yes?”
“I’m wondering what you thought about the staff meeting today.”
“Thought?” She regards me coolly.
“I mean, about the termination of health insurance benefits. Don’t you find that concerning?”
She dips her hands deep into her jacket pockets. “It’s not my place to interfere in administrative decisions.”
“But what about the staff? Surely you’re concerned for their welfare.”
She stares at me, unblinking, her eyes pools of liquid black. “May I speak to you in utmost confidence?” she asks.
“Of course.”
Her voice drops. “I’ve had my concerns about young Kai Gilchrist since the day he set foot on campus. And when he was promoted to executive director, well, those concerns quickly multiplied.”
“What kind of concerns?”
“I’m not in a position to discuss, but on the most basic level, he has no empathy for our elderly guests, nor for the hardworking staff.”
Her words are like a blessing to my ears. “I thought I was the only one troubled by his attitude.”
“No. You most definitely are not.” She pulls her cell phone from her pocket and eyes its glowing face. “I’m sorry. I must hurry off. One of our Catholic guests has taken ill, and she’s asking for last rites. I’d like to support her until the priest arrives.”
“Of course. Don’t let me hold you up.”
The pastor rushes off, and for a moment, I bask in a glow of validation. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who sees Kai for the unethical man he is.
I’m about to move on when I spy a slip of paper nearly hidden in the weeds. I pluck the pink Post-it Note from its nest and catch a whiff of a medicinal scent. I turn it over and angle the note so it reflects the watery light. Gordon Harrington is written across the top. Beneath it, 9.30.19. I peer into the darkness, suddenly nervous. Should I head to the Harringtons’ and check on Gordon? But how would I explain my sudden visit? I wouldn’t want to worry Kate, and the pastor said Gordon was fine. I consider calling Zach to tell him about my discovery, but then I remember our bigger problem and decide it’s best to wait. I’ll show Zach the note in the morning, and we can decide how best to proceed.
Six
Tuesday, October 1
I drift through a valley of fog so dense I can hardly see. Alice and Adam are shrieking in the distance. “Mommy! Mommy!” Something is terribly wrong.
I fly after them down a ribbon of road. A masked man has grabbed hold of their arms.
“Stop! Release my babies.”
But the man is running too fast; he seems to be floating on air. And my steps grow heavier and heavier until my feet are rooted to the ground. Then my body hardens into a trunk; my arms split into branches. I’ve morphed into an oak tree, with pink Post-it Notes for leaves.
“Mommy, help!”
I sit up in bed, heart pounding.
“Ruth!” The clock says it’s not yet seven, and there’s a banging on my front door. “Ruth! It’s Zach. Open up.”
Zach. That’s right. I asked him to stop by. I climb out of bed and stumble to the door. “Give me a moment,” I call.
After hurrying back to my bedroom, I pull on leggings and an old sweatshirt. Then I brush my teeth and remove the traces of mascara shadowing my sleepy eyes. All the while, I hear Zach’s heavy steps pacing on my porch. His nervousness makes me anxious. Did he learn something last night?
I fling open the door, and Zach stands before me dressed in his olive-and-black uniform. He looks tired, his eyes rimmed in red, a frown gripping his worried face.
“Did something happen?” I ask.
“Coffee, please? Before we dive in?”
“Sure. Follow me.” I brew a pot while he waits at the breakfast nook, working his hands together. “Here you go.” I set down two white mugs of steaming black coffee and take the adjacent seat. I can’t hold back any longer. “So what is it? What have you found?”
He clears his throat. “Gordon Harrington is dead.”
“Dead?” The memory of the pink Post-it Note flashes before my eyes. “How? When?”
“Not sure how, but he died sometime last night.”
“Of natural causes?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Then how?”
“It has to do with the Goodnight Club.” Zach runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “I’ve learned what it is and who is involved.”
“Tell me.”
“Kate Harrington is their unofficial leader.”
“Kate?” I picture the elegant elderly woman with the flaming red hair. “I don’t understand. Does this have something to do with Nurse Milo?”
“I’m not sure. Could be. Let me explain.” He goes on to tell me about his nighttime visits with Kate. About the camaraderie on their front porch. About sharing a glass of whiskey, which he acknowledges is a fireable offense. Then he moves on to her husband. About a night he helped turn Gordon in his bed. How he pitied the man who was entirely helpless and looked like a frozen corpse.
“That’s sad, but . . .” His meaning begins to come clear. “Are you suggesting he didn’t die from natural causes?”
Zach nods. “I’m fairly certain the Goodnight Club had a hand in this.”
“Kate told you this?”
“She implied.”
“So you’re saying they killed him?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to promise to keep this a secret. You can’t spew to anyone else.”
Spew? I get to my feet and begin to pace. “I prefer not to agree to anythi
ng until I know what we’re talking about.”
Zach kneads his knee with a pained look on his face. “At least promise not to pass judgment before you hear me out.”
“I’ll try . . .” I grab a kitchen towel and wipe my hands, and then I wipe my brow.
“You feeling okay?” Zach asks.
“It’s early, Zach. And it’s warm in here. Just tell me what’s up.”
Zach focuses his gaze on his feet. “Well . . . a few years ago a bunch of guests decided not to leave the end of their lives to fate. They were searching for not only quality of life but for quality of death. They formed a club to take control of their destinies. They called it the Goodnight Club. They meet in secret once a month.”
“At Serenity Acres?” What he’s saying is not making sense.
“Yes.”
“But how is that possible?” I sag onto my chair, wondering how I wouldn’t have known.
“They’re adults, Ruth. And most are quite sharp. They may look old, but I’m guessing many are brighter than us.”
“So this group meets to . . . ?”
“To support each other in their decision to end their lives.”
The caffeine doesn’t seem to be working. I can’t grasp the meaning behind Zach’s words. “So they support each other’s plans for suicide? A version of the Hemlock Society?”
“Sort of.” Zach leans forward, hands on knees. “They support each other’s plans to die on their own terms.”
“I’m not following you. If it’s not suicide, then . . .”
He grips his hands together and gazes at me with his startlingly blue eyes. “A professional helps them complete their mission.”
“A professional? Someone helps them to die?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re talking murder.”
“Not murder. Assisted suicide.”
“Which is murder in this state.”
“Maybe our society calls it that, but ethically . . . ?”
“Ethically?” I stumble to my feet and fumble over my words. “It’s . . . it’s murder, plain and simple.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“What do you mean? You were a detective once. You know right from wrong.”
He shakes his head. “I guess I stopped seeing things in black and white when Hunter and Tina died. Life isn’t goddamn fair. Things don’t always make sense. And I gave up being judge and jury when I saw the curveballs God serves up.”
“And Gordon? He was part of this Goodnight Club?”
“In a way, yes.”
“And this professional helped him to die?”
Zach nods. “I believe he administered the drugs.”
I lean back, appalled. “But Gordon couldn’t speak. Couldn’t write. Couldn’t move. So, he couldn’t have given his consent.”
“Except that he had a wife who loved him and understood his needs.”
“Or, he had a wife that was tired of caring for him and took the easy way out.”
Zach shakes his head and groans in frustration. “You told me you wouldn’t rush to judgment.”
“This is no rush. This is reality. You’re not thinking straight.” I resume pacing, trying to wrap my head around this mess. “Did Kate give you any more details?”
Zach drops his head in his hands. “God, I’m tired. I need to get some sleep.”
“There’s no time for that. I need to know everything you know.”
He looks up. “All right. I’ll tell you what I know. The Goodnight Club meets monthly in various locations to discuss ways to end their lives. They get down to the nitty-gritty details. They research end-of-life drugs and that sort of thing, although they leave the method of their passing in the hands of the professional.”
“So how does this ‘professional’ know who and when?”
“When a guest decides he’s ready, he fills out his name and chosen date on a pink Post-it Note. Then he gives it to Kate, and somehow it makes its way to an ambassador, who then passes it on to the person Kate calls the Angel. This Angel is the professional, the one who administers the drugs.”
“So they call the professional an angel?”
“The Angel, yes.”
“Did Kate tell you who this Angel is?”
“She says she doesn’t know.”
“What about the ambassador?”
“She’s never met either one.”
“Well, I may have.” I grab my purse and search through the contents and whip out the pink Post-it Note. “Check this out.”
Zach takes the note from my trembling hand and looks up at me in surprise. “Where’d you find it?”
I tell him about my encounter with Pastor Sam. About finding the note on the ground.
He shakes his head. “I’m guessing it’s just a coincidence that the pastor was at the Harringtons’. I can’t believe she’d be involved.”
“Why not?”
“Wouldn’t it go against her faith?”
My eyes narrow. “So you admit what’s happening is murder?”
“Maybe in society’s eyes, but not mine. I understand what it’s like to suffer so deeply you no longer want to live.”
I fold my arms together. “You’ve laid a terrible problem at my feet, haven’t you? Think of the Post-it Notes I’ve collected without reporting them. And there could be many more that died in the hands of this ‘angel.’ I mean, what if he isn’t so benevolent? What if he’s a killer? A serial killer? For instance, the destitutes have been dying at an unusually high rate. Could he be involved?” I pause, getting excited.
“You’re speculating here,” Zach says.
I can’t keep my voice from rising. “What else am I supposed to do?”
“Try to figure this out. Calmly.”
“How do we do that?”
“To start with, I can ask Kate if the destitutes were part of the club.”
“Better we tell the authorities.”
“By the ‘authorities,’ do you mean Javier?”
“Yes.”
“And tell him what? We don’t know for sure who the Angel is, or the ambassador for that matter. And if we bring this story to him without evidence, who knows how it’ll go down? It could focus the wrong kind of attention on us. On Adam.”
I consider his words. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
“Investigate further. See what we can find out. Speak to Kate and to the pastor.”
“And what if the pastor is this Angel? What if she’s dangerous?”
“I doubt she’s dangerous,” Zach says. “Maybe misguided, but not dangerous. The more facts we have to this story, it may make our next step clear.”
I hesitate. “All right. I’ll text the pastor and set up a meeting. Let’s see what we can find out.”
“Good. But I really need to get some sleep. I’ve got to be thinking straight.”
“Fine. Go ahead and sleep. Let’s plan to meet this afternoon.”
Seven
Tuesday, October 1
Zach and I arrive at the pastor’s office shortly before five in the afternoon. That’s the earliest she could meet, which gave Zach a day of sleep and me some time to clear my head.
I visit the chapel fairly often, but its beauty never gets old. The altar is framed by flower bouquets. Lemon oil scents the air. Stained-glass windows paint vibrant rainbows across the polished wood floor. Church services are held Friday through Sunday, and funerals dot the week. There’s even the occasional wedding when an amorous guest ties the knot. You would think those would be happy events, but many are definitely not. Some family members dread losing control of parents; others worry about diluted trusts. We even broke up a fistfight once between an elderly groom and his middle-aged son.
The pastor’s office is located down a flight of steep stone stairs, tucked behind the altar in the back corner of the chapel. The light is dim, the air musty. Ventilation comes from a fan. The room was originally built for storage, but when the pastor arrived five years ago, she
had it converted to her office.
At the bottom of the steps, I tap on the thick wood door, and it opens with a creak.
“Come in,” the pastor says. She must have recently showered, because her gray hair is plastered to her head. Her skin is more sallow than usual, as if she’s recovering from the flu. We follow her inside the musty-smelling office, where she takes a seat behind an antique desk and we settle onto two straight-backed chairs. There’s no sign of a computer, printer, or landline, but hundreds of books line the walls. Most of them appear quite old, especially the ones tucked behind a large glass bookcase.
“Welcome to my home away from home,” the pastor says, patting a thin leather-bound book resting on her desk. “May I offer you something? Coffee or tea?”
“No, thank you,” we answer in unison. You wouldn’t know it from our vantage point, but there’s a tiny kitchen and half bath tucked behind the back wall. There’s also a small bedroom not much larger than a closet. I’m told she sleeps there now and then.
“I apologize for the smell,” the pastor says, fingering her cross. “Old books go hand in hand with mildew, and as you can see, I’ve collected quite a few. What started as a hobby has developed into a passion. In fact, some might call it an addiction.”
“Rare books?” Zach asks, eyeing the glass bookcase.
“Some date back to the sixteenth century. You can have a look, if you like.”
“Another time. I’m scheduled to work the night shift.” Zach clears his throat. “Do you meet with many guests down here?”
She shakes her head. “Not many. I typically engage with them in the chapel or the central conference room. But some of my more agile guests prefer the privacy of my office. You can’t hear a thing through these thick walls. They find that comforting when they’re spilling their secrets.”
“Secrets?” Zach leans forward. The detective has come alive.
“Yes. Most people have them. And at this point in their lives, many like to share them. It gives them a sense of relief.”
I gaze at the woman, thinking how odd she is and that it’s time we get on with our mission. I glance at Zach, but he doesn’t take the lead, so I start in. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About?”
“About this.” I pluck the pink Post-it Note from my pocket and place it on her desk. “Do you recognize it?” She takes the slip of paper and gives it a good look. “Should I?”
What She Never Said Page 21