by Maia Ross
“Good afternoon, Irma. Miss Charlotte is currently resting.”
“Is she all right?”
“The strain is wearing on her. It appears that Master Scooter might be developing acute respiratory syndrome. The hospital just informed us.”
“Bugger. Has he woken up?”
“Not as yet, I’m sorry to say. In any case, Miss Charlotte asked me to tell you about a phone call I took while she was lying down this morning. From a Mr. Jake Tapper. He’d apparently heard about Master Scooter’s overdose and wanted to speak to her about it.”
“Well, that’s interesting.” I wanted to be excited, but instead, I was wary. It had been my experience that strangers offering unsolicited help in these kinds of situations were often up to no good.
“Indeed. He left a phone number for you, but it’s the Club’s number. I assume he works there. He left an extension: 415.”
“I see. Thank you, Antoine. What did he say, exactly?”
“Just that. He had some information about what had happened to Master Scooter, but he wouldn’t speak to anyone but her. When I pressed him, he hung up. In retrospect, I wish I had woken her up. But she has been feeling poorly since Master Scooter was injured. It’s weighing on her.”
“You were right to leave her asleep, Antoine. In any case, I’ll deal with it. Please have her call me when she’s feeling better.”
“Certainly, Irma. I appreciate you taking this on.”
We rang off, and I called the Club number, dialing Mr. Tapper’s 415 extension. There was no answer, and I left him a brief message before handing the phone back to Stu, who cocked an eyebrow at me.
“I didn’t know you repaired medical equipment?” I said to him, to wave off any questions he might have. I felt protective of Stu, and I didn’t want him pulled into all this.
“I don’t,” he said with a grin. “The power cord had been yanked out of the wall a bit too hard by that young whippersnapper, what was his name again, the one with the lazy eye?”
“I can never remember.”
“Well, he pulled too hard, and here it is. I guess they need it to charge the battery. Couldn’t fix the rest of it if I tried.” He laughed. “Too fancy. You up for a drink later?”
“Seems likely. And can we go sailing tomorrow? I’m dying to get on the water.”
He nodded with a smile. He had a beautiful Grampian 30 sailboat that we always spent the summer sailing on. His delightful grand-niece had named the vessel Submarine Sailboat for reasons no one could quite comprehend. It was a lovely boat, although I had to admit I’d never located its periscope.
We made our way to the back. I could see Julian had found the machine in the clutter of the workroom. Stu and his helper did a lot of small machine repair for the islanders who were thrifty, which, sad to say, was not all of us.
Julian plugged the machine in.
“What is he trying to do?” Stu asked me.
I caught him up on what had transpired at the police station. Soon it would be buzzing all over the island, and I wanted him to get the information straight from me.
“I’m real sorry to hear about all this,” Stu said to Julian. “But how will looking at this machine help? Wouldn’t he have to look at a printout of, I dunno, the actual machine?”
I nodded, my head on a tilt.
Julian was standing in front of the IV stand, keying in instructions that made it beep. He was muttering under his breath. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him so upset.
“Ha!” he finally yelled. “I knew it!”
“What?”
“There’s a failsafe set up on these machines. There isn’t always, but I asked the manufacturer to hard-code it in before shipment. I had a buddy in med school. She overdosed a patient—on penicillin, not pain meds. The patient was okay, thankfully, but it really affected her. That’s why I had mine configured this way. Look,” he gestured for me and Stu to come closer. “You can’t go higher than two millilitres of propanifen every fifteen minutes. In the hour he was hooked up, he couldn’t have had more than eight millilitres—a fraction of the fifty millilitres in the IV bag. We give the patient a button so they can self-administer, but we throttle it.” He lit up with a smile. “So I’m not crazy, and I’m not wrong.”
“Could the specific unit Scooter was using have been set up improperly?” I asked.
He shook his head. “They’re all shipped with exactly the same configuration. The medical supply company—Medicil—verified every one with me when they dropped them off. I’m spearheading the program at the clinic.” But then his face fell. “So why was the bag empty, then…?”
The happiness I’d started to feel soured inside me. I looked at the machine. The screen was full of information that was impossible to understand. Then it started beeping in a pattern. An annoying one.
“What’s that noise, dear?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ve never heard it before.” Anxiety bloomed in his expression again. “What if the units are faulty?”
I tried to tamp down my own sense of worry, but it wasn’t easy. I was emotionally involved in all this, which, before I retired, would have been a horrible mistake. A potentially deadly one. But this island contained real people I cared about deeply. Julian was at the beginning of his career. A whisper of incompetence would ruin all the hard work he’d put in over the years. And Charlotte had asked me for my help. I had to protect both of them. Plus, she was right: we simply could not have hooligans running around robbing and kidnapping people willy nilly on our island.
I felt resolve settle over me: I was going to figure out what had happened to Scooter and who exactly Mr. Doe was. I didn’t know how the two were related, if they even were. But I was going to find out.
“There’s some kind of code: Error 0058T45. But I don’t know what it means. Give me a sec, and I’ll call the supply company,” he said, stepping away and making a call on his cellular. After a short conversation, he clicked off and looked at us. “There’s an internet outage in Vancouver at the customer service office. They’re going to get back to me in a few hours. But they can’t send someone out for at least two days.”
I crossed the small room with some pep in my step and picked up the receiver from Stu’s wall-mounted telephone. “No worries,” I said sweetly. “I know someone who can help.” And then I dialled.
Seven—Violet
It was surprising to open my eyes and see my tiny hostess looming over me.
“Gah!” I pulled a couch cushion over my head. After a moment, I peeked out.
Irma had a slightly contrite look on her face, which did not make me feel better whatsoever. “Hello, there!” She always used a particularly soothing tone when she wanted something, and it underpinned her words now. I felt suitably alarmed in response.
“Irma,” I said calmly. “I thought we’d talked about you coming into my apartment without knocking.”
“I know, dear, and that’s why I knocked. But you didn’t hear me.”
“I didn’t hear you because I was asleep. Napping. Unconscious. Not awake.”
“Well, I realize that now,” she said with a smile. “But it’s not very healthy to nap during the day and stay up all night. As I told you last week.”
“Irma...” I gritted my teeth and sat up, the cushions so plush I had difficulty with my balance. “I’m a night person. A night person who has to get up at eight every morning to work. Although I did go to bed early last night but was awakened by sirens and dead people, if we’re all searching our memories.”
“It was just the one dead person, although I do absolutely apologize about that. Some people pick strange places to die, it has to be said.”
“Do they? Don’t most people die in their beds?”
“Is that what they do in Toronto?”
She had a point. I’d seen more violence than I should have, growing up like I had.
Irma’s expression softened. “I don’t want you to worry about your saf
ety while you’re here, Violet. We’re very secure. I promise.”
“Uh-huh. Speaking of secure, wasn’t my door locked when you came in?”
“Not that I’m aware. But if you are going to nap, why don’t you do it in bed? It’s ever so much more restful.”
It took me a minute to sort out how to answer. I’d slept on a sofa for the first seven years of my life. It felt comfortable to me. “I like couches,” I said finally.
“How interesting. And do you know what’s even more interesting? I have a technology problem for you. Young Dr. Julian is in a pickle and only you can help. But if you don’t want me to bother you, I completely understand. And I do apologize for waking you up. Err, again. But it was a matter of life and death. Of course, if you’re so tired you can’t stay awake, I understand your position. I’m terribly sorry.” Irma started to back up toward the door.
“Life and death? Julian?” I felt slightly less groggy but still cranky. Regretfully, I could feel it slipping away. Irma was magnificent at getting me to do things. It was like she was Yoda. Only preppier.
“No, no, you’re quite correct. I overstepped. I did call you several times, and you didn’t answer, and I got worried about you, honestly, but don’t trouble yourself, I suppose Julian will just...Well, anyway, it’s not your problem. I’ll just leave. And I do apologize.” Irma’s British accent always made it impossible to stay angry at her. Plus, I was pretty sure she deepened it when she wanted something. She was at the door now.
“It’s fine. I’m awake. What’s the problem?”
She stood on the threshold of the apartment, pretending to look torn. “Are you sure, dear?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Yes, Irma. What is it?”
“I need you to look at an IV machine.”
“What?”
“Scooter’s been the victim of an opioid overdose, possibly delivered by his IV machine, you know, the one at the clinic? Well, that is the preliminary conclusion. They’ll do a more thorough investigation.”
“What?” I was awake now.
“I know it’s a bit of a stretch, but I was wondering if you could take a look and figure out what might have gone wrong with the machine. Unless it’s too far out of your wheelhouse. Maybe you can’t figure it out, anyway. It’s not even really a computer.”
Everyone had buttons that could be pushed. There was no shame in that. But I wished I hadn’t told Irma how much I liked solving challenging technical problems. Unfortunately, she’d wheedled it out of me over prime rib and good scotch last week, so that explained that.
“Everything is a computer, Irma, it’s fine.”
“Everything is a computer?”
“Yes. Cars, refrigerators, IV machines. Everything is a computer.”
“And you’ll know how to—”
“I’ll be ready in five.”
After throwing water on my face and enduring a hair-raising ride into town in a blue pickup Irma’d probably hot-wired, we arrived at Stu’s hardware store.
Irma opened the door with a mighty swing and prompted me to enter first. “Where am I going?”
“Back room,” she said cheerily, stopping in the gardening aisle. “Hello there, April. Violet, this is Dr. April Van Oot, Beaver Island’s pre-eminent psychiatrist. And—”
“Oh, I think I met your aunt Charlotte last week,” I said.
Dr. Van Oot smiled. “I’m only a Van Oot by marriage. I married her nephew, James.”
“April, Violet Blackheart,” Irma said. “She’s staying with me this month and learning more about boating—”
“No, I’m not.”
“And the island.”
I shrugged my agreement to that one.
“Nice to meet you,” April said, smiling pleasantly. She was mid-fifties, her dark brown hair arranged in a stylish pixie cut. She was standing in the eco-friendly section, holding a bottle of organic pesticide called Kill-e-roo that featured an adorable baby kangaroo hopping up and down. It almost made me want to start gardening, even though I had no outdoor space at my apartment, and I’d once killed an air plant.
I tried not to feel awkward as we shook hands.
“I didn’t know you gardened, dear,” Irma said to April.
She smiled broadly. “I’m trying something new.”
“Good for you!” Irma said. “I was sorry you couldn’t make it to our fundraising lunch the other day. Charlotte missed you.”
April dropped the bottle into her cart and grabbed some twine for staking tomatoes. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I got a flat tire and couldn’t make it. But Charlotte was kind enough to send over the materials for me to read, so I’m all caught up. I’m looking forward to the fundraiser this Saturday. And seeing Charlotte slow down a little after its all over, frankly.”
“Me too, dear. But she’s leaving for a visit to Vancouver on Sunday.”
“Really?” April looked disappointed. “I was looking forward to spending some time with her. Do you know how long she’ll be gone?”
“Rest of the summer, I believe. She’s going to visit an old friend.”
“Well, good for her.” April smiled and waved at us before tottering off on her sky-high heels. I’d noticed a lot of the island women wearing similar shoes. I glanced down at my Converse.
“Poor thing,” Irma said to me. “Her husband, James, died in a car accident last fall. Charlotte has tried to look out for her.”
I made a sympathetic noise as we walked. In the back, Julian was sitting on a small ladder, staring at a banshee-level-beeping IV stand.
“Hey, Julian.”
When he turned to look at me his blue-green eyes were tinged with red, and I felt a pang of distress. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’m sorry about all this. The technical support group at the medical supply company is having some kind of outage.”
“No problem. This it?” I looked at the LCD screen on the stand. It was a fairly large machine, the screen lit up like a Christmas tree, a sticker on its face declaring its name, IV03.
I didn’t understand people or the sometimes-complex social rules that they all breezily followed. I preferred dark rooms full of server computers with their blinking lights and the freezing cold air chilling the room. I liked untangling problems and understanding how systems connected together. But I definitely did not like it when technology was used to hurt people, especially people with blue-green eyes and nice smiles and perfectly floppy hair.
I pressed a button and descended into the different layers of the menu. Most of the machine’s configuration was greyed out—I couldn’t even open half the settings—and I wasn’t sure why, although I suspected that was so none of the patients could reconfigure their medication, or so none of the settings could accidentally be changed by cleaning staff who were touching the unit while sanitizing or transporting it. I geeked around for a bit until I found some master configs. When I got to disable network, I pressed YES, and the beeping ended.
“The machine was looking for its computer network,” I said.
“We’ve been tryna make it stop for half an hour,” Stu muttered.
“You could have turned it off,” I said. “Took out the battery, maybe.” Was it my imagination, or did Irma blush at that? Warmth rushed to my face. Irma was, as far as I could tell, the smartest person I’d ever met, and I’d been in a lot of rooms with a lot of smart people. But Irma wasn’t just smart, she was quietly dangerous and sophisticated, which wasn’t an easy combination. And I wanted to learn how to channel some of that danger, so no one would ever try to steal my life’s work again. So it would be safe. Which was probably why I let Irma keep breaking into my apartment, which I had absolutely, definitely, locked before my nap.
Julian laughed, and I smiled at him in relief. He’d been way too serious so far.
“Well, thank you for that,” he said with a grin, before running his fingers through his already-tousled brown hair. I tried not to notice it too much.
“I can dork around with this, Julian, it’s no p
roblem. But why aren’t we just looking at the one at the clinic? The one Scooter used?”
“The police have it. And they’ve closed the clinic down so they can do some investigation. Temporarily,” Irma said hastily.
That can’t be good. I decided not to say the thought out loud. I had a decision tree I used when trying to figure out if I should say something or not. The first question was: Will my comment help in this situation? The answer was often no, like it was here. It was a pretty short tree, most days.
“Okey dokey,” I said instead.
“But they’re all configured the same when they’re shipped,” Julian said, “So this should be set up exactly like the one at the clinic.”
“Got it,” I said. “I’ll just download a manual for our little friend here to my laptop, and see what I can figure out.”
“Brilliant,” Irma said in that British-y way of hers. “Let’s get cracking.”
There seemed to be a general agreement at that around me, but I was already not listening. I was in the machine.
Eight—Irma
I left Violet and the rest of the gang to their devices and made my way up Main Street to Evergreen Lane, turning left at the next block, humming and casually pulling on a pair of latex gloves as I walked.
I’d told them all I was going to get tea and some treats, but the truth was that earlier today, I’d reached out to Laverne Pfefferman, who managed a good chunk of the island’s real estate. She always knew who was moving out, who was getting a new place. Including Richard Van Oot, Charlotte’s first cousin, who’d quietly listed his two acre estate last week, she’d informed me with no small amount of glee. And my lovely friend Laverne had been the listing agent for the apartment Scooter had recently moved into.
It was nice. I knew that because I was standing right in front of it; a medium-sized Victorian that had been diced up into apartments, much like my own home.
I re-tied one of my shoelaces, looking up and down the street as I knelt. It was after nine in the morning, and most people would be at work, although that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Senior citizens and mothers with small children liked to pop out from behind shrubberies at the most inopportune times.