Best Place to Die

by Charles Atkins

  Feeling like livestock being led through a paddock, she went down the stairs with Agent Alex – possibly Keanu – a close step behind.

  ‘He must have been on the cell,’ she offered. ‘Which, considering there’s a regular phone on the desk, you have to wonder why.’

  ‘Fishing, are we?’ He chuckled. ‘Why don’t you wait over there, I don’t know how long you’ll have to stay. They probably won’t get here for half an hour.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Crime-scene team, and a couple agents from a major-crime unit.’

  ‘You’re not?’ she asked, wondering what Wally Doyle had done that warranted a surveillance team of FBI agents.

  ‘No . . .’ He looked at her, clearly aware she was hungry for this story. ‘Fraud.’

  ‘Interesting.’ They were now at the bottom of the steps. Across the closed-up pool, with its tautly stretched black safety cover, she watched Jennifer Doyle emerge through the screen door. Her curiosity was off the charts. ‘Fraud related to Nillewaug?’

  ‘I got to get my camera,’ he said, and left her.

  ‘You know my husband was their medical director,’ she nearly shouted after him. It was a blind stab, but he stopped dead, and turned.

  ‘You were married to Dr Trask?’

  ‘Norman Trask?’ His answer not at all what she’d expected. ‘Didn’t he retire a couple decades ago?’

  ‘Then Dr Stanley?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, seeing that this had him truly interested. ‘My husband was Bradley Campbell. He was their first medical director. He felt there was something wrong about that place and didn’t stay on long. I think Gordon Stanley took the pos-ition after him; I thought he was still doing it.’

  ‘Did your husband go into any detail, about why he left?’

  She felt her audience slipping, but what exactly had led Bradley to give up the lucrative side job? It was over ten years ago, and while there was little Bradley kept from her, there had been something strange about his turning down the Nillewaug position. ‘I don’t recall,’ she said, regretting her lame answer.

  ‘Well, if you do . . .’ His head rose at the sound of a siren from down in the valley, and he jogged back to his car.

  ‘Mrs Campbell?’ Jennifer Doyle’s voice from the back deck, where she stood looking toward the pool house. ‘Is Wally . . .?’ Her voice drifted.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Lil stated simply, and watched Jennifer’s face for the reaction. And while tempted to pull out the camera, she didn’t.

  Jennifer Doyle bit her lower lip and bobbed her head slightly. Something about her, lean to the point of anorexia – Jack Spratt and his wife. Her face a mask of worry, deep lines around her eyes and at the corners of her thin lips. Her collarbones protruding from the scoop neck of her yellow blouse. ‘Should I go back there?’ she asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Lil offered, walking around the edge of the pool, careful of the cords that held the cover bolted to rings in the patio.

  Jennifer seemed frozen, her hands resting on the rail. ‘He shot himself?’

  ‘It looks that way,’ Lil said, noting the signs of shock, her unfocused stare, the information not yet fully registering.

  ‘They didn’t give him a choice.’ Her words were clipped.

  ‘Who?’ Lil asked.

  Her gaze shifted from the pool house to Lil. ‘Mrs Campbell, why are you here?’

  Oh Lil, she thought, rapidly sifting through possible answers and finding one that was both vague and true. ‘I heard a shot.’

  She nodded. ‘He wasn’t as stupid as everyone thought,’ she said. ‘It’s just . . . he was too trusting . . . I told him to take the deal. At least we would have come out of this, maybe been able to keep the house . . . maybe not. I told him it would have been OK. He should have taken it.’

  ‘What deal? With whom?’

  ‘I need to call the school,’ she said. ‘I don’t want the boys coming home to this.’ And without another word, she vanished into the kitchen.

  Lil pulled out her cell to check the time – who, what, when, where, why? Handsome Alex had returned and was methodically taking photos, and through the open pool gate she spotted Hank Morgan pulling up in his Explorer, accompanied by Kevin Simpson. Hank saw her and rolled his eyes.

  Moving fast in her direction. ‘Getting to be a habit with you, Lil. And by the way, nice piece in The Register.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So.’ He looked toward the pool house where agent Alex – definitely Keanu – was taking exterior shots. ‘What happened?’

  In under thirty seconds she gave him the facts she knew.

  He sighed. ‘Crap! More Feds.’ And he went over to Alex. The men shook hands, and Hank went with the young agent up the side steps behind the shower.

  ‘Crap indeed,’ Lil muttered, not at all familiar with the complexities of police work, but realizing there were at least three layers of law enforcement now involved in charming little Grenville. On her list of things to do: get educated about investigations and police work. This, however, was no time for hitting the books. She pulled out her phone and for the second time that morning called Edward Fleming. His assistant told her he was in a meeting. ‘It’s important,’ she said, wondering where this story fit in the hierarchy of things. Is it really that important? Maybe you should wait for him to get back to you? At what point, she wondered, would she use up whatever favors she had with the man? Clearly this was not what he wanted her doing, and yet . . . it’s what she wanted.

  He picked up. ‘What is it, Lil?’

  Using the fewest words possible she pitched the story: Wally Doyle, Nillewaug’s Chief Financial Officer, shot dead, a probable suicide in the setting of a federal fraud investigation.

  And then something strange; Fleming chortled. Not a little, but Lil pictured the normally straight-laced editor with his wire-rimmed glances snorting through his nose. ‘And pictures, Lil? You got shots of the dead man, I’m assuming?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well done. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘They told me not to leave the scene; I don’t know for how long. The Grenville chief of police just got here, but considering both the Feds and the state police are involved, I’m thinking this is going to chew up my afternoon.’

  ‘Of course you can leave,’ he said. ‘They’re not charging you with anything . . . are they?’

  ‘No . . . at least I hope not. But . . .’ It was difficult to put in words, and since the fire she’d been dealing with odd emotions. Things she didn’t realize mattered, apparently did. It was not just that she was enjoying this sense of purpose, and of seeing her byline for something other than fluffy columns. There was something stronger, a forgotten hunger. She had wanted to be a journalist, and somehow she’d buried those ambitions; apparently, she mused, buried doesn’t mean dead. It wasn’t just that Keanu had instructed her to stay here, with some veiled threat that if she didn’t there’d be consequences. Bottom line, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to catch every detail and glue it to the printed page. Who what where when and why? Her thoughts flipped through questions. How does this fit in with Nillewaug? What exactly was Wally up to? Is that why he killed himself? Or did he kill himself? And a weird excitement – this is my story.

  ‘You don’t have a laptop with wireless?’ Fleming asked.

  ‘No,’ she admitted, feeling like a rank amateur.

  ‘Get one,’ he said, ‘but here’s what you do.’ He laughed again, and she wondered if he’d just used up his quota for the year. ‘This is the way it used to be. You’re going to call my assistant, Fred Barrett, and read him your story. You do have a pad and paper, at least?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. He’ll type it up and I’ll edit it myself . . . this time. The tricky part will be getting your camera out of there without arousing suspicion.’

  ‘I’ll call a friend. It shouldn’t be hard. She can attach them to an email.’

  ‘And, Lil . . .’

&nb
sp; ‘Yes?’

  ‘Get it to me fast and make it good.’

  TWELVE

  Ada scanned the aisle of freezer cases, spotting her mother and Alice in the distance. They were hovering around a woman serving samples of pot-stickers, a bag of which were in her oversized cart. With her monthly coupons in hand she was comparing the stock number for the frozen spinach pies with the one on the circular. Never much of a cook, and pretty much fine with living on cottage cheese, Greek yogurt, tea, Chinese take-out and Danish butter cookies, she was now confronted with feeding a seemingly bottomless teen and now her mother and Alice. She knew that Lil, who did the bulk of the cooking, was getting swept up in something new and exciting. Ada didn’t need to be told how important this was. At the fire, she’d seen a side of Lil she’d only glimpsed before, her eyes intense her face flushed. And this morning, the unmistakable elation Lil had felt at seeing her story – and it was really good – on the front page. No – she needs to do this – wondering if maybe she shouldn’t rescue the poor sample lady from Rose and Alice who were treating her booth like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Double checking that there was no limit on the coupon she grabbed four multi-pack boxes of frozen spinach pies and deposited them in her cart. She was pulling out a box of jalapeño pepper poppers to read the nutritional information when her cell buzzed.

  ‘Is this Jimmy Olsen?’ she quipped, seeing Lil’s name on the caller ID.

  ‘That’s who I feel like,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Costco, figured I’d stock up, and then try to do a walk-through late this afternoon in Mom’s place and Alice’s as well.’

  ‘They’re going to let you in?’

  ‘I got through to Kyle and he said that on an apartment-by-apartment basis they’re going to let families and residents do a quick go-through and see if there’s anything they can salvage. I’m also hoping to do some insurance photos. He doesn’t think the Fire Marshall’s going to want people in there for more than fifteen or twenty minutes. I’m not looking forward to it.’

  ‘Ada, I hate to add to that . . . but I need your help.’

  ‘Of course.’ She listened as Lil told her about being the first on the scene of Wally Doyle’s suicide. ‘How horrible.’ There was a pause, and for a moment Ada wondered if the connection had been broken. ‘Lil?’

  ‘It is horrible,’ she finally said. ‘And there’s something wrong with me. Oh my God.’

  ‘What?’ Ada asked, pushing her cart out of the way of another shopper who wanted her share of spinach pies.

  ‘Ada, he’s dead, probably killed himself and all I can think about is being the first with the story. That’s why I called you, I need you to come over here and get my camera, then pick out the best shots and get them to the paper.’

  Ada smiled, loving the excitement in Lil’s voice, her confusion, her passion. And then she looked up. ‘Damn!’ Rose and Alice were no longer in sight, likely having been cut off at the dumpling station. ‘Lil, there’s nothing wrong with you, other than we’ve both been going with too little sleep since the fire. Whatever emotions you need to feel about a man you barely knew killing himself will come. Don’t feel guilty about this, or about getting this story.’ Ada thought of Lil, how she’d looked that morning as she’d brought her her tea, so excited, giving her a quick peck on the cheek and then off to write. ‘People can live their entire lives without real passion, or, if they find it, they somehow manage to run away from it, or snuff it out. The one thing we know for certain – and Lord knows we’ve seen enough of it lately – life is short.’

  ‘It is,’ Lil said. ‘So I’m not a total ghoul?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, but a ghoul with a passion.’ She added, lowering her voice, ‘My ghoul.’

  ‘So that’s what they were singing.’ Referring to The Temptations’ classic.

  ‘Yes, Lil,’ she said and, catching the allusion, sang a quick line in a pitch-perfect alto: ‘Talking ’bout my ghoul . . . let me round up Aaron and the ladies and I’ll get there as quick as I can.’ She hung up, glanced at the time, and, seeing none of her companions, dialed Aaron. ‘We need to move fast,’ she said. ‘Find my mother and Alice and meet me at the checkout.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Aaron, no buts, we’ve got a ton of things to do this afternoon, and I need your help. Please, just find them.’

  Putting her weight into it, she maneuvered the heavy cart toward the front of the cavernous store. As she made a wide left, she saw Alice and Rose in a crowded throng around the kiosk for David’s Cheesecake. ‘Mom,’ she shouted, as the cart picked up speed. ‘Alice.’

  Her mother, whose hearing aides had been lost in the fire, didn’t budge as she pointed to a berry-topped custard tart, and indicated she wanted two samples. Alice waved. ‘Hello, dear.’

  Ada, unable to halt the forward momentum of the laden cart, yelled back, ‘Alice, time to go home.’ Seeing that didn’t have the desired effect, she added, ‘Let’s see Johnny.’ Moving a bit too fast now, it took all her strength to keep from hitting other shoppers or veering into a mountainous display of men’s bathing suits. Digging in with her heels she slowed the cart, and, like a plane coming for landing, approached the shortest check out. The line moved fast, and, while waiting, she dialed Aaron again. ‘I’m in check out now! Your great-grandmother and Alice are at the cheesecake booth. We need to move.’

  ‘But they have the newest World of Warcraft and the price is better . . .’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, knowing a shake down when she heard it. ‘Just get here, and bring Alice and Rose.’

  ‘Thanks, Grandma.’

  Looking at her cart, food to last a family for a month and some basic clothes for Rose and Alice, she rethought all that needed to get done. Pick up Lil’s camera, have Aaron load the pictures on the computer, email them to the paper, drop off and put away groceries, stop at the post office and try to track down Rose and Alice’s mail and do change-of-address forms, locate Rose’s insurance policy . . . probably can do that online. And, thinking that if she didn’t despise Jack – yes Ada, be honest you can’t stand your son-in-law – he could be helpful with the whole insurance claim thing considering it was his company that had Rose’s policy. Putting her smaller items on the belt, and leaving the larger ones in the cart with the bar codes facing up, she spotted her companions. ‘Tremendous,’ she muttered, seeing that Aaron wasn’t the only one taking advantage of her urgency. He had in fact found her mother and Alice, and they in turn had decided the strapping seventeen year old made a good cheesecake-carting Sherpa.

  ‘Did you get one of each?’ Ada asked, as the stack of six oversized cake boxes landed on the conveyor belt, topped by a chit that the cashier handed to her assistant for Aaron’s pricey – albeit discounted – video game.

  ‘They’re delicious,’ Rose said, and added, whilst smiling at her daughter, ‘Almost as good as the ones I got at Katz’s . . . ’course I can’t do that any more. Because someone insisted I move out of my perfectly lovely apartment into . . .’

  ‘Fine, mother,’ she said, wondering if between her and Lil’s freezers they’d be able to store it all.

  ‘I want to go home,’ Alice said.

  ‘We’re going home,’ Ada replied, trying to keep an eye on the flashing prices as the checkout woman scanned the bar codes. As she reached into her bag for her purse, her cell went off again. ‘Aaron, can you get that?’

  ‘Sure.’ He took the phone.

  She swallowed at the total. $578.98? And over a hundred bucks in cheesecake. Giving her mother a quick look. Of course, cheesecake is delicious. She handed over her American Express. As her goods were arranged into the cart, she caught part of Aaron’s conversation. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s Kyle, he says that if we want to get into Rose and Alice’s apartments we need to get there ASAP.’

  ‘What?’ she said, taking her receipt. ‘Aaron, you push this thing, and let me have the phone.’

  ‘Kyle, it’s Ada St
rauss, what’s going on?’

  ‘I just wanted you to know,’ he said, sounding exhausted. ‘They’re letting a few people back into their apartments accompanied by fire fighters. I got clearance for both my grandma and Rose, but this is a time-limited offer. I overheard some guy from the insurance company telling the Fire Marshall his company wouldn’t take any responsibility for injuries incurred as a result of people getting hurt. It’s now or never for trying to retrieve anything.’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ Ada said. And, feeling like a contestant on some bizarre game of Beat the Clock, told Aaron, ‘Let’s move.’ She then realized her mother and Alice had strayed. She spotted them at the pizza window, ‘Ladies,’ she shouted, ‘we’re leaving, now!’

  THIRTEEN

  An hour later at Nillewaug, Ada’s son-in-law and Aaron’s father, Jack Gurston, couldn’t have been in a worse mood. ‘Moron!’ Needing to get away from that dolt of a Fire Marshall. His eyes, red rimmed from smoke and ash, seemed set to pop from his harshly angled face, as he sat in the back of his Lexus, his navy suit reeking from burned plastics and accelerant. As a senior adjuster for The Clarion his primary objective was to contain the insurance company’s exposure. But this . . . a nightmare and the kind of thing that could lose him his job if he weren’t careful. Moron, what the hell is he doing letting civilians back into that place? One fall and . . . He knew he needed some rest, but what he needed and what The Clarion expected – although his Vice-President boss would never say it out loud – is get the job done and minimize The Clarion’s payout.

  And that’s when he saw them. ‘Fuck no!’ Wondering if it was possible for things to get worse, but there his interfering bitch of a mother-in-law, her mother – whom he didn’t mind so much – some old redhead in green sweats, and Aaron. His jaw tightened and he shut his eyes, the familiar rage always so close. My son the fag. How could he do that to me? Not my son. He knew that Rose lived here, at least she used to, so they wanted to get back in. Of course, and wouldn’t it be great if the one who had a fall was his relative? Maybe his fag son. Wouldn’t that look great? He glared at the quartet who were all clutching empty black garbage bags. They were headed toward a side entrance, like they were planning to just waltz back in. Moron Fire Marshall probably said it was OK. Or, thinking of Ada, who had no respect for how things were supposed to be, just assumed she could do whatever the hell she liked.