by Julie Hyzy
“Keep in mind”—Joe pinched three fries and used them for emphasis—“we still don’t know whether Gus received any insulin. This discussion may be moot. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say he did.”
“If he did, are you saying that one of the nurses injected him?”
“Again, not necessarily.” Joe lifted his burger with both hands. “Anyone who wears a heparin lock for a while knows how they work.”
I lifted my burger off the plate. “Meaning Gus could have injected himself.”
Mouth full, he nodded vigorously. A few seconds of chewing later, he added, “Let’s hope Gus died a natural, peaceful death. But even if he didn’t, I think there’s enough to cast doubt on Frances being the killer.”
We spent the rest of dinner discussing the case and tossing ideas back and forth. Joe ate at a more leisurely pace than I did and still had half his food left by the time I’d polished off my burger and consumed every fry.
“You weren’t kidding about being hungry,” he said as the waitress slipped the empty plate out from under me.
“It’s been an incredibly long day,” I said. “I’ll be glad to see the end of it.”
The waitress placed the bill on the table between us.
He reached for it. “Then I won’t keep you.”
I laid my hand on the little leather folder first. “My treat,” I said. “It’s the least I can do for all your help.” When he hesitated, I added, “I insist.”
“Well then, thank you.”
As he withdrew, I noticed a faint tan line on the ring finger of his left hand. Worse, he caught me noticing.
“Maybe we can do this again sometime,” he said, breaking the awkward moment. I was grateful to him for lessening my embarrassment. A corner of his mouth curled up. “Without an autopsy report to analyze.”
I’d enjoyed our time together—both at Indwell today and here at dinner. Though I barely knew him, Joe Bradley already felt like an old friend. “I’d like that.”
* * *
Bennett had urged Frances to stay home and take care of herself while the storm of her suspicion raged, but—true to form—she showed up at work the next morning, right on time.
“I feel safer here,” she explained when I asked her. “If the cops come for me again, at least one of you will know about it. If they cart me away when I’m home alone, who knows how long it would be before somebody notices I’ve gone missing.”
“Speaking of Bennett,” I said. “He’s due here any minute. He wants to hear what Tooney has come up with.”
“Have you told the Mister about what your coroner friend said?” she asked.
“Not yet. Have you called Lily Holland to tell her?”
She nodded. “She said it’s good information, but we’ll need more if we expect to get charges dropped.”
“Let’s hope Tooney has what we need.”
She snorted. “I’m not holding out hope. If all this was about you, he’d have had you declared innocent before the cops had left Indwell the first time. But this is for me, so I can’t expect him to care.”
“Not true,” I said.
The door to Frances’s office opened and Tooney walked in.
“See?” she said. “If he wanted to come into your office, he’d knock first.”
Distraught, Tooney asked, “I was supposed to knock?”
“Come on in,” I said, pointing to the seat next to mine. “I can’t wait to hear what you’ve come up with.”
A second later, Bennett strode in. “How are things today?” he asked. “Were you able to sleep, Frances? Is there anything you need?”
“I’m fine.”
I got up to pull a chair from my office into Frances’s.
“I can get it, Gracie,” Bennett said.
When we were all settled around Frances’s desk, I held out a hand. “Mr. Tooney, we are all ears.”
His cheeks pinkened. “I hope some of this helps.” He pulled out a notebook from his pocket. “I’ve been shadowing each of the people Frances named, one at a time. A few of them live pretty close together, so I’ve been able to develop an efficient route that takes me past their homes when I know they’re off work. I had to learn their routines pretty quick, you understand. And I’ve been able to discreetly ask questions and follow them around enough to make some educated guesses about how they spend their free time.”
Frances tightened her crossed arms and made a face.
“Great,” I said. “Go on.”
“Starting with Gus’s family: Harland and his wife have been looking at new cars. Expensive ones.”
Frances made a noise.
“How expensive?” I asked.
“Considering they live in a modest house in an old neighborhood and both drive fifteen-year-old clunkers, I’d say very. He seems to favor a black Mercedes while she’s eyeing a green Jaguar.” He shrugged. “I can’t say for certain, but they sure act like people who expect to be coming into money soon.”
“That’s not surprising,” Frances said. “Gus was rich. I’m sure both sons stand to inherit a big chunk of change.”
Tooney waited for her to finish. “Dan, the younger son, eats out every night at the same restaurant a few miles outside Rosette.” Before I could ask, he anticipated my question. “Vern’s Steak House. Popular with locals. He may be considering a move to Florida. I can’t decide if the brochures he’s left behind at the restaurant indicate that he’s planning a move or he’s just dreaming.”
This sort of information wasn’t much help. I could feel Frances’s frustration grow. “What about Indwell’s staff? Did you learn anything valuable about them?”
“Tara was off work yesterday. She spent all her time with her fiancé—which she usually does.”
“Knew that,” Frances said.
“Santiago puts in extra hours as often as he can.”
“Knew that, too.”
Tooney frowned. “He lives alone and binge-watches zombie and vampire TV shows.” He cocked an eyebrow and added, “He attends Gamblers Anonymous meetings twice a week after work.”
“So?” Frances fidgeted.
“Debbie is divorced and lives with her mother. Cathy loves her dachshunds more than she loves her husband, I think. She buys a lot—and I do mean a lot—of stuff via mail order.”
“What kind of stuff?” Frances asked.
“No way for me to know,” he said. “Boxes pile up on her front stoop every day. I’m surprised she can fit anything more into her house.”
Frances twisted her mouth to one side and looked away. “I knew I couldn’t count on your help.”
“Hang on, Frances,” I said. “Maybe the reason why Tooney hasn’t been able to dig up any dirt on these people is because there isn’t any dirt to find. It still hasn’t been proven that Gus died of insulin poisoning.”
“Doesn’t seem to matter to the cops though, does it?”
I drew in a deep breath. “Let’s focus on the positive, shall we?” I turned to Bennett and Tooney. “Joe and I were discussing the autopsy report last night. He came up with an interesting observation.”
“Joe?” Tooney asked. “Are you talking about the coroner, Dr. Bradley?”
“Exactly,” I said. “He didn’t know Gus had a heparin lock.” I tapped the back of my left hand. “If Gus died of insulin poisoning, the vials could have been injected via that port. It stands to reason that he either did it himself or one of the nurses did it under the guise of a routine flush.”
Tooney’s soft face crumpled in on itself as he pondered that. “I don’t know if I buy him injecting himself,” he said slowly.
“What, you think Gus would have let me inject him?” Frances asked in a huff. “That man and I never got within ten feet of each other. We shared a mutual loathing.”
“What’s troubling you, Mr. To
oney?” Bennett asked.
“The way I see it, these insulin vials are like rounds of ammunition. If you fire a semi-automatic, spent shell casings are going to fly out with each shot. Most criminals—or people, at least, who know about forensic evidence—will pick up their spent shell casings and remove them from the crime scene so detectives have less evidence to work with.”
“I see where you’re going,” I said. “If Gus dosed himself, why pick up all but one syringe cap?”
Bennett sat forward. “Could Gus have become too disoriented to notice the one on the floor?”
Tooney frowned. “But he would’ve had to have disposed of the rest of them somewhere, right?”
“Right,” I said. “The cops searched through Gus’s wastebaskets. Nothing there.”
“So then whoever dosed him took the vials and their caps out of the room,” Tooney said. “But whoever it was missed one.”
“The one that Santiago found rolling around on the floor,” Frances said. “Nosy creep.”
“I’m sure that’s why one vial is completely missing,” I said. “Once the killer realized that a cap had gone astray, he or she couldn’t return the obviously used vial to Percy’s refrigerator.”
“The killer probably never anticipated Santiago’s involvement,” Bennett said.
Tooney nodded. “Exactly. Which means—”
“That Santiago is probably not our killer,” Bennett said.
I wrinkled my nose. This wasn’t new news.
Frances bristled. “How does any of this help me? It doesn’t, does it?” She pointed a finger at Tooney. “You go ahead—keep eliminating other suspects. Why not? It’s not like the Mister pays your salary or anything. I’m sure that’s exactly how he wants his money spent—helping total strangers stay out of trouble.”
Bennett and I exchanged a glance. Though we both understood that Frances was disappointed by Tooney’s information—or rather, lack thereof—I wanted to keep her spirits up. “Sometimes we have to take a step back before we take a step forward.” My words felt as lame as they sounded.
“For me, a step back means being locked up behind bars. No, thank you.” She stared Tooney down. “I only just met the new coroner and he’s done more for me than you ever have,” she said. “Thanks for nothing.”
My office phone rang. Frances glanced at the display on her console. “It’s the front desk,” she said and picked up.
Her brows danced high on her forehead, but all she said was, “Yes, fine. She’ll be right down, I’m sure. Yes. Got it.”
When she hung up, she glared at Tooney. “Did you forget Anton?” she asked.
“Anton?” Tooney said. “No, Grace—”
“You remember Gus’s best friend, don’t you? Or wasn’t he on your list of people to investigate?” she asked him. Before he had a chance to respond, she turned to me. “He’s here. Wants to talk with you.”
“He’s here? Now?”
“In the flesh.”
“Okay, I’ll go talk with him.” This was unexpected. “But before I do, you need to know that Tooney didn’t follow Anton because I asked Bruce and Scott to investigate him.”
“You did? What were you thinking?”
“They’re in the same line of business,” I said. “Doesn’t matter now. But don’t blame Tooney, okay? Why does Anton want to talk with me?”
“No idea.” She shook her head. “They’re showing him to the Birdcage Room right now. He’ll wait for you there.”
Tooney shuffled to his feet. “I’ll keep at it. I’ll keep shadowing these people. I promise I’ll come up with something, Frances.”
I got up to accompany him out. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
As Tooney and I made our way downstairs, I said, “Frances is going through a rough time. On a good day, she’s brittle and ornery. With all that’s going on, she’s having a tough time holding it together. She needs to lash out. I’m sorry you took the brunt of it.”
“She has every right to be angry,” he said. “I should have found something to help her by now.”
Chapter 29
When I arrived at the Birdcage, I scanned the sea of small tables where a smattering of guests conversed quietly, sipping morning beverages and enjoying house-made pastries while mellow music drifted through the air. It took me a moment, but I finally spotted Anton. Hands clasped behind his back, the thickset man stood silhouetted against the curved, two-story grid of windows that gave the room its name.
Sensing my approach, perhaps, he turned as I reached him.
“Nice to see you again, Anton,” I said. “What brings you to Marshfield this morning?”
His face broke into a wide smile. “You are a vision.” Spreading his arms to encompass the surroundings, he said, “A perfect jewel in a magnificent setting.” Before I had a chance to react, he grabbed my shoulders and kissed me on each cheek. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
I hadn’t realized we were on such comfortable terms. Taking a step back, I indicated one of the nearby empty tables. “Please, join me.”
The moment we sat, one of the Birdcage waitresses came by. The young woman attempted to hand us menus, but Anton said he didn’t care to order. “Nothing for either of us, then,” I said. The moment she was gone, I turned to him. “I confess I’m curious as to the reason for your visit today.”
Much like the posture he’d assumed Sunday after learning of Gus’s death, Anton sat hunched, leaning hard on the table, hands clamped in front of him. His face was etched with lines. “Frances did not kill my friend. She should never have been arrested. The police are making a mistake by investigating her.”
“We know that,” I said gently. I hoped Anton’s visit today wasn’t merely to express solidarity. “But lacking concrete evidence that proves otherwise, the police seem all too willing to prosecute.”
He continued to stare at his clenched hands.
“You wouldn’t have any information that could help exonerate Frances, would you?” I asked.
He rubbed his thick thumbs together several times before answering. “That is why I am here.” Finally looking up long enough to make brief eye contact, he said, “What I have isn’t evidence, but it is insight.”
I tugged my chair closer to the tiny table. “Go on.”
“I have struggled in my heart with whether to say anything or not, but I find I must.” He flicked another glance up at me. His bloodshot eyes were heavy-lidded; shiny, capillary-speckled bags pouched beneath them. “I have no proof, only speculation.”
“Tell me,” I said.
He worked his lips much the same way he’d worked his thumbs a moment earlier. “I have known Gus most of my adult life,” he began. “And so I have known his sons ever since they were children.”
I sat up straighter.
“Gus was hard on them both, to be sure. He was not a cruel man, but neither was he kind. The boys avoided him, always. Their mother didn’t help matters. When she divorced Gus, she worked hard to turn the boys against him. Not that it took much effort on her part. By then they were adults who had already embarked on their own lives.”
“Where is she now?”
“She died some years ago. Although the boys were bereft, they weren’t stupid. They recognized that their elderly wealthy father had become ill and that their obligatory visits and birthday phone calls probably weren’t enough to ensure them an inheritance. So they attempted to reconcile with Gus, telling him that the only reason they stayed away was for their mother’s sake. They promised they’d become real sons to him now that she was gone.”
“You know this?” I asked.
“I watched it happen.”
“And did they?” I asked. “Become real sons to Gus?”
“Gus was a very smart man,” Anton said. “He saw through their charade. He knew what they were after.”
“And you believe one—or both—of them may have killed Gus?” I asked. “But why? If he was as ill as you say, why not maintain the happy family illusion and wait for their father’s inevitable demise?”
“Because they believed—mistakenly—that every penny spent at Indwell was that much less they’d inherit.”
Though I remembered both Harland’s and Dan’s complaints about the cost of housing Gus at Indwell, I picked up on Anton’s word choice. “Mistakenly?”
“Gus took out a life insurance policy several years ago.”
“The two-million-dollar policy?”
“That’s the one. Harland and Dan are beneficiaries.”
“So I understand,” I said. “However—and not to be so cold about it—why wouldn’t they simply wait for Gus to die a natural death?”
“Because Gus took out that policy only to appease them. They wanted a look at Gus’s will; they were afraid he’d written them out.” Another bloodshot glance to ensure I was paying attention. “He had. That’s what I’m here to tell you. Gus left everything to me.”
I felt my jaw drop. “Wait.” I attempted to process what he’d just revealed. “You?”
He nodded sadly. “I found out myself only yesterday. Gus added a codicil, or whatever it’s called, explaining his reasoning. He said he knew his sons were money-grubbers. The only reason he waxed poetic about keeping the fortune in the family and made certain they both knew about the insurance policy, was to fool them into believing he would leave his entire estate to them. To stop them from constantly bothering him about his money. And it worked.”
“Are you telling me that the sons inherit nothing?”
“They are still entitled to the proceeds from that insurance policy. And Gus bequeathed a token amount for both. My friend believed that would be enough to keep them quiet, to prevent them from challenging my claim.”
“But this means—”
“It means, first of all, that I had motive.” He brought his gaze back up to meet mine and held firm. “Even though I didn’t know the terms of the will until yesterday, the fact that Gus’s death is being investigated as a homicide changes everything. The boys could argue that their father was planning to change his will again—this time to include them—but before he could, I killed him.”