Fit to Die

by J. B. Stanley

  It was all James could do to refrain from mentioning that Carter was undoubtedly smitten with Ronnie Levitt. Why else would the man walk his dog in a different neighborhood if not to catch a glimpse of the woman he admired? But he kept silent, not wishing to draw Lucy into an argument.

  Finally, James resorted to rehashing details of the Polar Pagoda fire until they reached the nursing home. Despite the choppy beginning to their day of investigation, James felt a renewed sense of hope as they mounted the sweeping stairs leading into the brick mansion’s entranceway. A willowy blonde seated at an ornately carved oak reception desk greeted them warmly when they asked if they might pay a visit to Fred Wimple.

  “Oh, he’ll get a kick out of talking about his days as a teacher,” the blonde assured them, directing them along a plush carpeted hall that led to the back of the building. “Mr. Wimple likes to read outside before lunch, so I’m certain we’ll find him, nose buried in a book, out on the sun porch.”

  Lucy was craning her neck as they passed large oil paintings in gilt frames and stately pieces of antique furniture. “How many residents do you have here?” she asked.

  “About sixty. We keep it cozy so it feels more like a home filled with extended family than some kind of hotel or hospital.” The blonde gestured gracefully as they passed an intersecting hallway. “Our dining room and kitchen are to the left and we have exercise facilities, a music room, and a media center to the right. All of our residents live on the second floor. Each room has a private bath.”

  “This place must cost a fortune!” James blurted out.

  The blonde slowed her pace. “It’s not inexpensive, no, but the people who come to live here are genuinely happy. They don’t feel like they’ve been left here to die, but given a place where they can genuinely live out their golden days.” She held open a heavy door leading out to a wide, sunlit porch. Several men and women were reading in wicker rocking chairs with plump cushions and a foursome were playing Hearts as they sipped on glasses of cool tea. The sound of soft jazz was being piped through speakers tucked beneath the eaves, and a gardener was carefully pruning the hedge growing alongside the porch. “Here we are. That’s Mr. Wimple in the corner wearing the gray vest. Oh, and I’m Trish. Just call me if you need anything. Someone will be coming by shortly to see if any of the residents are thirsty. Feel free to try some of our homemade limeade at no charge, of course. Enjoy!”

  Lucy moved forward in order to introduce herself to Mr. Wimple. He was a slim and dignified-looking octogenarian with thick, wavy white hair receding along a pink forehead. Along with his vest, he wore a pair of comfortable chinos and leather house slippers. His hands shook slightly as he turned the pages of his book.

  “Mr. Wimple?” Lucy interrupted his reading using a soft voice. “We came to talk to you about someone we believe was a friend of yours,” she began after introducing herself and then James. “We heard you were a friend of Pete Vandercamp’s.”

  “Well, I can tell you one thing,” Mr. Wimple said, “I was truly shocked to read about his death in the paper. You work for the Sheriff’s Department you say?” he asked Lucy.

  “That’s right.” Lucy plowed on in a direct manner. “You see, a friend of ours teaches art at Blue Ridge High. She thought you might be able to shed some light on Pete’s past. That’s why we came, Mr. Wimple. We aren’t convinced that Pete Vandercamp’s death was an accident, but we really don’t want to disturb you if you’d rather not talk about it.”

  Mr. Wimple carefully closed his book and removed his reading glasses. He studied Lucy and James for a few moments with a pair of keen eyes from within crinkled folds of skin and then seemed to come to a decision. “Call me Fred—my teaching days are long over. So you think I might be of assistance?”

  James nodded. “No one really knew Pete. We might have thought we did, but we just knew of him. You know, only the bits he showed the outside world.”

  Fred Wimple seemed to consider James’s words very carefully. Finally, he folded his hands together and looked James in the eye. “Tell me everything you know about the fire so I know the background a bit more. I might be able to fill in some blanks.”

  As Lucy filled Fred in on the details of the tragedy and the subsequent findings from the fire investigator, the Sheriff’s Department, and Willy’s insurance company, James found his eyes wandering to the lush and verdant gardens beyond the back porch. A muscular young man wearing athletic shorts and a tight T-shirt wheeled an elderly man down one of the garden paths. James recognized the fit form as belonging to Dylan Shane, but didn’t dare wave hello. He returned his attention to the task at hand as Lucy finished her summary of the events involving Pete’s death.

  When she was through, Fred hailed over a middle-aged woman taking orders for refreshments and asked for three limeades. When the woman moved away, he cleared his throat and in a wobbly voice said, “Peter never smoked cigarettes and he never used drugs. I may not have seen him every day of his life, but I knew the habits that became his demons and those were chewing tobacco and Wild Turkey. And those two were enough!”

  “I don’t know whether you remember Danny Leary, the owner of Quincy’s Gap’s only liquor store, but Danny doesn’t believe that Peter would ever have purchased a bottle of Jack Daniels. Would you agree?” James asked.

  “Yessir. Mr. Leary had the right of it in telling you Peter would only buy one brand of whiskey. My young friends, someone else dropped those cigarette butts at the scene of the fire and someone else brought our Peter that Jack Daniels.”

  James and Lucy nodded. They both agreed. “Do you have any idea about who his enemies might have been?” Lucy queried.

  Fred shrugged. “Peter’s worst enemy was himself. He punished himself day after day for not being with Jeannie, his wife, the day she was killed. The whole world knows it wasn’t his fault. Shoot, he wasn’t even invited as it was just for the womenfolk, but that didn’t stop him from blaming himself.” Fred smiled as he accepted a cold glass of limeade from the woman who had returned with three glasses and a bowl of pretzels. “Thank you, Mabel.”

  When the woman moved away to serve drinks to the other residents, Fred continued. “Peter and I had a bond of loss, in a manner of speaking. My twin brother was killed during the Korean War. He died trying to protect me and so I understood the kind of guilt and grief that Peter knew. Neither of us were men with many friends, but we spent some time together. I don’t partake of alcohol and I tried to be a positive influence on Peter. I know he wasn’t a popular man, but he never did anyone wrong.”

  James took a sip of refreshing limeade. He could practically feel the sugar as it slid down his eager throat. Lucy finished her own glass in four swallows and then delicately dabbed at her lips with a cocktail napkin. “Anyone could see that Pete was unhappy. That’s why the authorities, with the exception of my boss, accept the ruling of accidental death.”

  “Yes, Peter was unhappy.” Fred looked off into the distance. “But he was trying to turn things around. I saw him just a few days before the fire. He was really looking forward to working with Willy. Peter viewed him as a fellow survivor and genuinely admired the fellow. I saw it as Peter turning over a new leaf.” Fred leaned over and clutched Lucy’s forearm. “If Peter was killed, then his enemy is someone I don’t know. I believe I knew all of the people Peter associated with, and there were very few of those. He was a true loner.”

  Lucy nodded. She clearly could think of no other questions to ask. “Thank you for your help. I’m more convinced than ever that he was murdered. We’re just no closer to discovering why.”

  Fred leaned back in his chair, clearly wearied physically by the conversation, but his eyes remained alight with intelligence and determination. “Peter was gruff with people. I know what he was like. He said something to someone near his end and that someone became angry. Enraged. Find out who he talked to and I bet you’ll find your man.” He gripped Lucy’s forearm. “And do let me know what I can do to help. I may be an old
man, but my mind’s still sharp as a razorblade.”

  James rose and shook Fred’s hand. He and Lucy promised to keep him informed and to return to Wandering Springs if they had any new or significant information to share. On the way out, James led Lucy around the outside of the house toward the walking paths spiraling around the back gardens.

  “Why are we going back here, James?” Lucy asked curiously.

  “I swear I saw Dylan earlier. This must be the nursing home where he volunteers.”

  Lucy immediately brightened. “Wouldn’t that be a coincidence? You’re right, there he is, reading the paper to that man dozing in the wheelchair.”

  Lucy and James approached Dylan and called out a greeting. At first, Dylan seemed stunned at seeing them in such a setting, but after they explained that they had come to visit Mr. Wimple, he smiled. “Fred doesn’t get many visitors. His folks were really well off but money doesn’t do you much good if there’s no one to spend it on. It was nice of you both to spend time with him.”

  “Well, we wanted to question him about—” Lucy began.

  “Local Quincy’s Gap history stuff,” James quickly cut her off. Lucy gave him a look of annoyance but before she could say anything further, the man in the wheelchair seemed to suddenly wake from his snooze. “Why hello, kids,” he croaked sleepily. “You all headin’ over to the ball game with my son?” he gazed at Dylan with pride.

  “No, Randolph,” Dylan patted the older man tenderly on the shoulder. “These folks are here to see another friend.”

  “Well, stop on over to our house afterward and we’ll fix you some supper. My Louise just loves to cook for you kids after one of our boy’s big wins. Best point guard in the whole of Miami-Dade County, yessir!”

  “Thank you, sir. We’d be delighted to come,” Lucy answered and Dylan winked gratefully at her.

  Dylan then leaned forward and whispered, “He’s got Alzheimer’s, poor man. He thinks I’m his son.” He began pushing the wheelchair forward, toward the Japanese garden James had seen from the parking lot. “Phoebe is here today, too. She’s been singing some Chinese folk songs for the residents.” He laughed. “They think she’s Japanese ’cause she’s wearing a kimono. She rented it from a party store and is going to help host an Asian tea ceremony later this afternoon. The residents are really pumped. Would you like to stay?”

  “We’d love to,” James answered quickly, “but I still have so much work ahead of me if I’m going to be ready for the library’s Spring Fling.”

  “Okay then, you two have a nice day. See you in class on Monday.” Dylan smiled warmly and he and Randolph moved off down the path.

  “Why did you lie to him?” Lucy asked angrily once they were safely in the Bronco heading back toward Quincy’s Gap.

  “Dylan’s a stranger to us, Lucy. And to Pete. As much as I like him, we can’t trust anyone.”

  “Oh please,” Lucy sighed in disgust. “So I suppose Carter and Phoebe are suspects, too.”

  “Yes,” James insisted. “Any stranger, including Ronnie Levitt. No one was interested in Pete’s existence until that group of newcomers moved to Quincy’s Gap.”

  “Oh,” Lucy scoffed, “so next you’ll be adding Willy to that list.”

  James scowled. “Willy was at the Brunswick Stew Dinner, along with Savannah Lowndes, Mrs. Emerson, and the rest of us.”

  “Well, so was Ronnie,” Lucy said triumphantly. “I guess she’s got an iron-clad alibi!” She smiled smugly. “And that leaves Carter in the clear as well.”

  “Oh good,” James mumbled miserably. He drove the rest of the way in sulky silence.

  Over the next two weeks, the members of the Flab Five thought of every excuse they could in order to bring up Pete’s name in front of anyone who had recently moved to Quincy’s Gap. Bennett pried Carter at work, Gillian questioned Willy as he was painting a pink San Francisco Doggie Town House on the front lawn of his rented house, Lucy and Lindy divided the task of grilling Phoebe, Ronnie, and Dylan during one of their weigh-in sessions, and James even asked a few subtle questions to Savannah Lowndes and Mrs. Emerson after church let out. No one discovered anything of any use.

  “All I learned is that my man Carter seems to have it bad for Ronnie.” Bennett remarked at their last supper club meeting. He shook his head, perplexed. “She’s not my kind of woman, but I guess some men like ’em scrawny.”

  “How do you know he’s interested in her?” Lucy asked while violently stabbing a piece of chicken with her fork.

  “Oh, he’s always wondering about little details. Where’d she come from? What did she do before Witness to Fitness? Like how would I know?” Bennett smoothed his mustache and added sympathetically, “That boy can barely concentrate on delivering the mail. Sometimes I see him just starin’ off into space when he’s supposed to be sortin’ letters. Shoot, I haven’t seen one creature moon over another since the old hound dog I had as a kid fell for the beagle next door. Too bad they both were males,” Bennett cackled.

  “Ronnie’s too old for Carter anyway,” Lindy quickly said after noting the stormy looks Lucy was directing at Bennett.

  “She certainly is not!” Gillian was miffed. “Men can date women ten years younger than they are so why can’t women do the same thing? True, Ronnie might be closer to her fortieth birthday than to her thirtieth, but look how young her soul is. Plus, women get better and better as they age.”

  “Kind of like wine?” James teased.

  “More like a priceless antique,” Gillian continued. “All of that life experience only increases one’s appeal.”

  Lindy tossed a lock of hair behind her shoulder. “Well, if I can look as good as Ronnie at thirty then I’ll be happy.”

  “Please,” James sighed. “Lose some weight if you want, Lindy. But don’t end up looking like a praying mantis. At least all three of you look like real women.”

  “Why James Henry,” Lindy smiled, placing her hand above her heart, “don’t you just say the sweetest things?”

  Later that week, James allowed Murphy Alistair to interview him regarding his current weight loss progress in exchange for some front page publicity on the upcoming Spring Fling.

  “This sounds like a fundraiser to beat all fundraisers,” Murphy commented as she took notes on the details of the festival. “Pig races? This is surely going to be a Saturday to remember. Sometimes all it takes is a little competition and presto! You’ve got a crowd. I’ve been working on my hat entry for the last two nights.” She winked at him coyly. “I don’t suppose I have an ‘in’ with one of the judges, now do I?”

  James felt his neck growing warm. “Uh … Mrs. Waxman and two of the library volunteers are judging the hat contest. I’m going to help the twins manage the pig races. Though the closer we get to Saturday, the more I wonder what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

  Murphy swatted the air in dismissal. “Come on, what’s the worst that can happen? Even if one of those pink speed demons tries for a prison break, we can just shoot the little oinker and have fresh ham and bacon for dinner!” Murphy gave James a playful nudge. “How are you planning on containing the thoroughbred swine, may I ask?”

  “Hay bales.” James frowned. “But now I’m wondering if I ordered enough. Can pigs jump?”

  Murphy laughed. “Most people only wonder if they can fly, but jump? Oh, I am so bringing extra film for my camera.” She flipped open a notebook and uncapped a pen. “By the way,” she said without looking up, “your weight loss is really beginning to show. I guess all the pain has been worth it. The question is, how much further do you plan to go on?”

  James had asked himself the same thing and told Murphy as much. “I just can’t stomach the idea of eating those entrées much longer. If I could make my own food, then I could stick this out, maybe even for the long run.” He opened the top drawer of his desk where a package of Twinkies nestled amongst loose rubber bands and paper clips. “See? I’m starting to buy junk food again merely to allow some kind of taste
sensation to return to my mouth during the day. I know that once dinner rolls around, I might as well be eating straw.”

  Murphy scribbled on her pad. “What if you could make your own meals, using a cookbook filled with light recipes? Would you really do that? I mean, most people don’t have time to cook every night.”

  “I would buy some light frozen entrées if I were too busy,” James replied. “But I honestly don’t mind cooking. I like the way the kitchen fills up with aromas. It reminds me of my mother.”

  “A sensitive man with a multitude of talents.” Murphy nibbled on the end of her pen and stared intently at James. “I can’t believe Dolly hasn’t gotten you married off yet.”

  James noted the glint in Murphy’s eyes, which shifted from gray to green beneath the fluorescent lights, and hastily changed the subject. He leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “Listen, Murphy, there’s something truly odd about the Witness to Fitness meals.”

  “Aside from their bad taste?” Murphy’s eyebrows rose up her forehead.

  “Yes.” James hesitated and then decided to take the plunge. “I think they’re the same as all the other frozen entrées from the grocery store. You know, like Lean Cuisine and Smart Ones?”

  “As in they taste the same?”

  “No, as in they are the same. I think Ronnie is just repackaging them in foil containers.” He watched as Murphy absorbed what he was implying. “For example, she gave us this ziti entrée again this week. We’ve had it once every week. Well, I bought one of the ziti entrées from Food Lion’s freezer section and I believe they are identical.”

  Murphy absorbed this information hungrily. “That would be a case of fraud if that were true. Especially with what you are being charged for meals.” She suddenly slammed her notebook shut, jumped out of her chair, and pulled a large black satchel over her shoulder. “I’d better check this out right away. This could be a big story.”