AHMM, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "It's certainly an appropriate verse for a copy editor,” I said, “or a tutor."

  She winced. “Yes. I'd planned to give it to someone, but now I suppose I'll keep it.” Without setting down her needle, she reached over to touch the bracelet on her left wrist. The oversized red beads were shaped like apples, I noticed. That was clever—ugly, yes, and gaudy, but clever.

  Roland strode in next, and the whole room seemed instantly brighter. “Hey, who's always late for rehearsal?” he said. “Ten o'clock on the dot, and here I am. This place is helping me already—I bet I'll be all the way rehabilitated within a week. Let's see if they remembered my thermos.” He flung open the refrigerator door, found the yellow thermos labeled with his name, sipped, and smiled. “Orange juice. Just what I requested. Now, if I can get them to add some vodka—but that's probably against the rules."

  Why was I laughing? He hadn't said anything even vaguely amusing. But I couldn't help it. “It might be a bit much to expect in the morning. Well, as soon as Courtney gets here, we'll start."

  Seven or eight minutes passed. I was about to go look for her when she stalked in, looking peevish. “Sorry. My mom called, and she would not shut up."

  "I'm sorry, Courtney,” I said, “but there's a rule against receiving outside calls at the center."

  "Fred waived the rule for me, since I'm under twenty-one. My parents can call me—that's it.” She grabbed her thermos and hurled herself into an armchair. “Next time you see Fred, tell him as far as I'm concerned, he can waive his damn waiver."

  I decided I didn't need to respond to that. “All right. Today, you're all supposed to work on your personal inventories. Who'd like to start?"

  Thank goodness for Roland. Immediately, he launched into an enthusiastic description of his mistakes and shortcomings, mixing sometimes startling confessions with charming little jokes and side comments reminding us that he was basically a great guy. Nobody else contributed much. Felix, of course, said nothing—I'd gotten used to that. Twice, Martha corrected Roland's grammar; beyond that, she too stayed silent. Courtney just stared at her clenched hands, not making eye contact with anyone. And Brian—Brian's silence was the most puzzling. Yesterday, he'd chimed in constantly, always ready with a complaint or a criticism or a revelation designed to embarrass someone else. Today, he sat hunched over the pillow, breathing heavily, his face visibly damp with sweat. Midway through Roland's account of a wild spending spree, I glanced at Brian and saw that his shoulders were shaking.

  "Excuse me, Roland,” I cut in. “Brian, are you all right?"

  "I dunno,” he said. “My stomach's cramping up something awful, and my heart's racing like crazy. It can't be the crunches—I just did thirty-seven."

  "Another misplaced limiting modifier,” Martha said. “You mean, ‘I did just thirty-seven.’”

  "Maybe you should lie down,” I said. “Roland, could you help him to his room?"

  But Brian didn't make it that far. Even with Roland's strong arms to support him, Brian took only two steps before collapsing to his knees, retching miserably. Martha got a wastebasket to him just in time, and I raced down the hall to the nurse's station.

  By the time we got back to the room, Brian was stretched out on the couch, panting rapidly. The nurse crouched next to him. “Did you feel sick when you got up this morning, Brian?” she asked.

  But he was too wretched to answer. “He seemed fine,” Martha volunteered. “I saw him walking through the courtyard during Independent Meditation Hour—he looked perfectly healthy."

  "So it started suddenly. Could be food poisoning,” the nurse said. “It would help to know what he had for breakfast."

  "What is oatmeal?” Felix supplied. He stood at the end of the couch, looking pale.

  "I had the same thing, from the same serving dish,” Roland said, “only I had four times as much as he did. The only other thing he had was water."

  "That pretty much rules out food poisoning,” the nurse said. “Let's get him to his room. I'd better call the doctor. Leah, inform Fred."

  For reasons I didn't exactly understand, I grabbed Brian's yellow thermos. It felt light. Later, after the doctor arrived, I opened the thermos and saw it was almost empty. I hadn't noticed Brian drink anything during the therapy session, but maybe he'd had some water during Independent Meditation Hour—the thermoses would be filled by then, and guests can go wherever they like to meditate. Could someone get food poisoning from mineral water? It didn't seem likely, but I didn't know enough to rule it out. I went to Brian's room and told the doctor about the thermos.

  "I doubt that has anything to do with it,” the doctor said, “but I'll take the thermos along and have the water tested, just in case. We'd better get this man to the hospital. His heart rate's completely erratic.” He looked down at Brian, who lay on his bed soaked in sweat, seeming oblivious to everything, his whole body shaking. “I checked his file. Losing over eighty pounds in six months—that can put a strain on the heart, just as gaining weight rapidly can. And if he's still been pushing too hard on diet and exercise, that might well bring on this sort of attack."

  It was a reasonable explanation, but I felt uneasy. After the ambulance took Brian away, I went to check on the other guests in the group.

  I found them all gathered in Martha's room. Martha sat at her desk, staring fixedly at a small antique clock that looked like a family heirloom; Felix stood nearby, holding a large plastic file box labeled “Cooking with Flair,” flipping idly through the dozen or so laminated recipe cards it contained, stealing anxious glances at Martha. Both Courtney and Roland stood by the window. He gazed out at the Cocoon Center's lush grounds; she spoke to him softly, her hand resting on his arm. When I said Brian had been taken to the hospital, Roland turned around sharply.

  "But he'll be okay, right?” he said. “Even if it's a heart attack, people survive heart attacks all the time. And he's in basically great shape, and they got him to the hospital quickly—they'll know how to take care of him there."

  "Yeah, heart attacks often aren't fatal,” Courtney agreed. “Plus Brian's receiving prompt medical attention from knowledgeable experts, and his overall fitness level is good. He'll be fine, won't he?"

  "I hope so.” I glanced at my watch. “It's your lunch hour. You may not feel like eating, but it's probably good to stick to the schedule."

  Obediently, they filed out. Not knowing what else to do, I walked back to Brian's room and found Fred locking the door—standard procedure when a guest left the center unexpectedly, he said, to protect personal possessions. In view of what had happened, Fred had decided to suspend all planned activities for the afternoon while we waited for news. So I grabbed a sandwich and came to the staff lounge to take these notes.

  * * * *

  4:15—

  Moments after I wrote the last sentence, Fred came to the lounge to deliver sad news. Brian is dead.

  "If you feel that strongly about it,” Sam said, “call him."

  Leah propped her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. “He'll think I'm an idiot."

  "Probably. But if you think there's even a chance it's murder, you should call."

  Sighing, Leah took the well-worn business card from her wallet and dialed the number. “Lieutenant Brock? It's Leah Abrams. You won't believe this, but I think it's happened again."

  Within the hour, Lieutenant Brock sat at their kitchen table, listening to Leah's narration while Sam poured coffee. She gave quick descriptions of the Cocoon Center and of the people she'd met there, a more detailed description of what had happened that morning. When she finished, he stirred his coffee slowly.

  "I can see why you're upset,” he said. “Watching a guy who seemed strong and healthy get so sick all of a sudden, having him die—I'd be upset too. And after what you went through those other four times, it's no wonder you expect somebody to get murdered whenever you take a temp job. But I stopped by the hospital on my way over here, and it sure looks like a natural death th
is time. The doctors agreed on that, and nobody from our department is giving them an argument. The guy was fifty-two, he'd been obese all his life, he lost so much weight so fast, he was still starving himself and overdoing the exercise even though his doctor warned him to slow down—all adds up to a heart attack."

  "I know,” she said. “But so many things seem so odd. What about the water in his thermos? The doctor said he'd have that tested—did he?"

  Brock nodded. “Yup. Pure mineral water. No trace of poison of any kind."

  "Oh.” Leah rubbed her forehead. “Will there be an autopsy?"

  "No reason for one,” Brock said. “Cause of death seems clear. The guy's only heir—an estranged son from his second marriage—flew in from Chicago to arrange the funeral. He hasn't requested an autopsy."

  "But you could request one,” Leah said. “Couldn't you? Lieutenant, I really think this man was poisoned."

  Brock sighed. “Testing for poisons is expensive, Mrs. Abrams, especially since we don't have any idea of which poisons to test for. Let me ask you this. If this guy was poisoned, it pretty much had to be by someone at the Cocoon Center. Now, nobody there will profit from his death—his son's gonna get everything. Can you think of any other reason why anyone at the center would want this guy dead?"

  "I can't,” Leah said. “He wasn't a nice man—he insulted almost everyone in our group. But none of the insults seemed harsh enough to provide a motive for murder. And I don't know how the poison could have been administered. It wasn't in the oatmeal he had for breakfast, evidently, or in his thermos. Maybe it was in a medication—he probably took vitamins. You could have those tested, couldn't you?"

  "I could,” Brock said, “if I had any justification for it. And we've got a lot of other stuff on our hands right now—trying to find that embezzler and figure out who killed that small-time drug dealer and track down that drunk who shot two people.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the table. “Well, hell. You've helped us solve four murders. You've got damn good instincts—you've proven that time and again. I'm gonna request that autopsy, Mrs. Abrams. If the captain gives me a hard time, I'll weather it—and if the autopsy reveals anything interesting, I'll call you. Why don't you see if you can get into this guy's room at the center, check out his medications?"

  "I think I can manage that.” Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Lieutenant."

  "No problem.” He took a last sip of coffee and stood up. “Say, what's happening with that book of yours, the one about impactful disclosure through nonarticulate signifiers? Is it coming out soon?"

  "I didn't find a publisher for it, actually,” she said. “An intern at a university press seemed enthusiastic about my proposal; unfortunately, he couldn't get it past marketing. I'm working on a new book—

  A Hermeneutics of Workplace Communications: Contra-Experiential Expectations, Obfuscated Infrastructures, and Exertion-Intensive Behaviors. I feel sure this one will have wider commercial appeal."

  "No doubt about it,” Brock said. He winked and left.

  * * * *

  Thursday, April 28

  When I volunteered to pack Brian's things, Fred accepted gratefully. Just as I'd expected, I found several bottles of vitamins. There wasn't much else to pack—just toiletries, sweatpants, tank tops, underwear. As I was rolling up socks, I heard something crinkle. Odd, I thought, and reached into the toe of a thick white sock and pulled out two crumpled Snickers wrappers.

  So even our dieting fanatic cheated sometimes, I thought, smiling sadly—the cheating made Brian seem more human, and that made my task feel more poignant. I started to throw the wrappers away, then paused.

  Brian had boasted that he'd conquered his sweet tooth. He'd said he hadn't tasted or even craved sugar in months. That, obviously, had been a lie. Sometimes, obviously, he'd sneaked sugar. What if the sugar craving had hit him again? When I'd walked into the Caterpillar Room yesterday morning, he'd been doing frantic crunches. Had he been working off calories he'd just indulged in on the sly?

  Sitting on the bed, I pictured Brian's almost empty thermos, pictured Martha taking a sip of sweet tea, frowning, and setting her thermos down. Had Brian come to the Caterpillar Room early to guzzle down most of Martha's tea? Had he covered up his theft by pouring most of his mineral water into her thermos? Unlike other guests at the center, Martha hadn't been pampered all her life. If her tea tasted too weak, she probably wouldn't complain. She'd probably just frown and stop drinking.

  I pressed my hand against my forehead. Last night, I'd lain sleepless for hours, trying to figure out why anyone at the center would want to kill Brian. Should I have been trying to figure out why anyone would want to kill Martha?

  Immediately, the inconsistencies started hitting me. “Martha hadn't been pampered all her life"—a ludicrous understatement. She'd been fired. She'd been subsisting on freelance copyediting and tutoring. She probably didn't have health insurance. How could she afford this place? Maybe she was independently wealthy. But her sweater was worn at the elbows, and she didn't act like an heiress. She acted like a bitter woman used to being treated shabbily. I looked around Brian's room again. He'd brought only a few things here—only clothes, vitamins, toiletries. Only the sorts of things one would expect someone to bring to a rehab center. Martha had brought an antique clock and a recipe file. Why?

  My cell phone rang. “We got lucky, Mrs. Abrams,” Lieutenant Brock said. “I put a rush on that autopsy—the coroner owes me a favor—and the first test he did turned up positive. Oleander poisoning. Probably ingested in liquid form, the coroner said—that's probably why it acted so quickly, especially since this guy didn't eat much and his stomach was always mostly empty. Probably, someone stuck oleander stems in water, extracted the poison that way, slipped it into something he drank. Only problem is, the coroner says the water would taste really sweet. And this guy didn't drink anything but water, right? You'd think he'd have noticed—"

  "Actually, he may have had some sweet tea yesterday. It's too complicated to explain now, but would adding the poisoned water to sweet tea hide the taste?"

  "I'd think so, yeah. Now, you said there are lots of flowering plants at this center. Any oleander?"

  "I don't know what oleander looks like. I'm sorry."

  "That's okay. I'll head over to the center now and check. Just sit tight till I get there. Don't confront anyone. Looks like we're dealing with a killer, Mrs. Abrams."

  I closed my phone and glanced at my watch. Almost 10:00. I had to go meet my group. And someone in that group might be a murderer.

  When I got to the Caterpillar Room, Felix sat in his usual chair near the back of the room; Martha sat in a pastel print armchair, working on her sampler, not looking up. Did she suspect someone tried to kill her yesterday? Probably not—she looked tired, but not frightened. Both Roland and Courtney sat on the dark green couch, rather close together. He'd piled up all three of the red throw pillows and was leaning back against them as he told Courtney about his movie.

  "It's not a standard romantic comedy,” he said. “My character has an arc. At first, he's cynical, doesn't believe in love anymore, because he's divorced. His turning point comes when he meets the Amber Andrews character. She's cynical, too, because she just got dumped by the guy she dated in the last movie."

  "A sequel.” Martha pursed her lips. “Too bad. Sequels are always disappointing. Name one sequel that won an Oscar."

  "What is Godfather II?" Felix said, eagerly.

  Martha smiled. “Quite right, Felix. That was a sequel, and it was excellent. Well. Half of it was excellent."

  "Yeah, fifty percent was good,” Courtney said. She seemed out of her depth.

  "True,” Roland said “The part about Michael was lame, but the part about young Vito getting drawn into a life of crime—fantastic. There's a character with an arc. Vito's turning point comes when a small-time gangster asks him to hide some guns—"

  "Who is Clemenza?” Felix sat forward, his face pink with excit
ement.

  "Right,” Roland said. “Vito doesn't realize what he's getting into, but now he's guilty, too, because he helped Clemenza."

  Courtney nodded vigorously. “Vito's not innocent any more. He's a criminal, just like Credenza.” I don't think she had any idea of what she was talking about.

  "That's enough movie trivia.” Martha's face had gone pale. “Leah, could we please move on?"

  "In a minute,” Roland said. “I wanna develop the parallel with my character some more. See, there's no turning back for Vito. He sinks deeper and deeper—"

  "Oh, for heaven's sake!” Tossing her sampler aside, Martha stood up and stalked out of the room.

  Roland lifted both hands in a helpless, uncomprehending gesture. “Hey, what'd I say? I was just describing Vito's arc."

  I didn't understand it, either. Picking up Martha's sampler, I gazed at the image of an eagle soaring past a beautiful mountain. Slowly, things started coming together—Martha's bracelet, Martha's room, even the stories Sam had been following in the news and the lawn ornament he was making for the Hartwells. “Felix,” I said. “The meaning of the name ‘Arnold.’”

  His face clouded with confusion. “What is ‘eagle?’ “ he said.

  I nodded. “And the meaning of ‘Belmont.’”

  His eyes darted to the sampler; his voice dropped to a whisper. “What is ‘beautiful mountain?’”

  I nodded again. “Please take a break, everyone. I need to speak to Martha."

  Taking the sampler with me, I found her in her room, sitting at her desk, staring down at her bracelet. “I'm sorry I made a fuss,” she said. “I got upset by all the talk about guns and crime."

  An odd response from someone who evidently enjoyed Godfather II, I thought. But it was time to stop noting inconsistencies, time to start explaining them. “Those are interesting beads,” I said. “Shaped like apples—apples for the teacher? Was that bracelet a gift from a student?"