Seniors Sleuth

by Jennifer J. Chow

A sudden rich fragrance of artificial flowers wafted over to them. Kristy pinched her nose and looked toward the opening sliding glass doors. Carmen appeared, slinking her way toward her grandmother. She wore a lime green halter top, its V cut placed low, and shorts that rode high up her thighs. She held a computer tablet and hailed him with it. “Hey, Winston.” Her lips cooed out his name. “Are you taking good care of Nana?”

  Kristy’s mouth compressed into a fine line, but she nodded a curt hello to Carmen before excusing herself to attend to the other residents inside the building.

  Carmen looked at Kristy’s retreating figure. “I wonder what’s wrong with her. I saw her cover her nose. I hope it’s not that second-hand smoke again. The administrator’s always sneaking his smokes in the corner of the garden. Those fumes wreak havoc on my flawless skin.” She leaned over Winston then, with her full bouquet of cleavage, before she settled down on the bench next to her grandmother. “Of course, you don’t smoke, do you? Or drink? You’re my kind of man.”

  How did she figure that? Did he look like a typical goodie-two-shoes Asian male? The fact that he hadn’t smoked one cigarette or touched a drop of alcohol in his life didn’t prove anything—she didn’t know that. His sole addiction was to video games, starting with Pong. His parents had assumed it was a phase and that he would turn out to pursue the ideal medical or legal career path.

  A gleam of flesh as Carmen crossed her legs interrupted his visual field, and he realized that he hadn’t answered Carmen’s question. “No, I don’t smoke or drink.”

  “You took a little too long to answer, Winston.” She wiggled a suggestive eyebrow at him. “Don’t hedge if you have some fun once in awhile. I have my wild side, too. I let loose when I drink a couple of Cosmos. So now that we’re better acquainted, why don’t you come closer?” Carmen patted the spot next to her, her manicured fingers a gleaming moss green.

  Winston sat a good foot away from her on the bench. “How often do you visit your grandmother?”

  She slid closer to him until their legs touched. “I come by once a week, don’t I, Nana?” She patted the old woman’s shoulder beside her. “I’m required to,” she said.

  “How so?” He scooted away another inch, hanging onto the bare edge of the concrete.

  “Well, I get this caregiver respite grant from a local nonprofit. They give me money to watch over Nana.”

  He cocked his eyebrow. “Doesn’t Sweet Breeze take care of your grandmother?”

  “Of course, but I provide her with emotional support and everything else she needs.” She put down the tablet she was holding. He looked at the device’s cover, which displayed a sketch of a woman wearing fig leaves holding up the Apple logo with her hand, a snake hissing above her head. Clever.

  With her arms free, Carmen tried holding her grandmother’s hand, maybe as evidence of the intimate bond she was compensated for. Eve’s palm hung limp in her granddaughter’s grasp. “Anyway, I need the money until I get discovered,” Carmen said.

  “Discovered?”

  She struck a pose and pouted her lips. “As a model. I enter all the local contests, and one day someone will see my extreme talent. Then I’ll be able to buy anything I want. I could buy a house like this one, a grand ol’ Victorian. After that, I’ll be a shoo-in for the movies.”

  “I see.”

  “How’s the investigation going?” Carmen crossed her legs again, revealing even more skin if possible. “Do you need any more motivation to continue your search? I can help inspire you.”

  Her aggressive moves scared him. He couldn’t help comparing Kristy’s quiet beauty with Carmen’s bold smuttiness. “That’s quite all right.” He stood up.

  Her eyes narrowed at him. “Fine, then.” She tossed her electric red mane and swiped her tablet hard, looking at the calendar that had popped up on the screen. “I’m off to a modeling audition, anyway.”

  His doubt about Eve hadn’t panned out, but he remembered another suspicious find during his previous snooping session in the residents’ rooms. He went to question the next person of interest on his list.

  CHAPTER 14

  Winston remembered the coffee cup in Jazzman’s room. It bore the initial “J,” which could have meant Jazzman. But Basie was Jazzman’s given name, and “J” could also stand for Joseph.

  He found Jazzman cascading his fingers along the piano keys in the lobby. He paused at a juncture with a twist of his fingers and a grimace on his face. Then he continued again. That’s right, Winston thought. Jazzman had mentioned his family tendency for arthritis. Could he have slipped Joe a fatal dose of his pain pills?

  “Excuse me, Jazzman. I need to speak with you a moment.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He finished with a flourish of the ivories and turned his attention to Winston.

  “I want to talk to you about Joe’s death.”

  “Yeah, I wanted to speak with you, too.”

  “Really?” Winston stared hard at Jazzman. Was the man ready to confess? He seemed as put-together as before, with his sleek silver vest and matching bow tie.

  “I overheard something that morning, but it’s so minor that I didn’t mention it before. Except now that you’ve got us fingerprinting, you might need all the info you can get.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  “The morning of Joe’s death, he squabbled with Pete. Nobody’s on Pete’s good side, but Joe got the brunt of it that day. Kristy had set up this nice field trip to see a fine art museum, and she wanted everybody there. Like usual, Pete refused to go, but Joe decided to talk to him ‘man to man’ and convince him.”

  “How would that help? I thought Pete wasn’t friends with anyone here.”

  “Well, the way Joe figured it, he would have the best chance with Pete, having been in the military. We all heard the ruckus, even with Pete’s door closed. Joe was there for only several minutes before Pete started yelling at him and saying, ‘You’re no soldier!’ There were some scuffling noises, but Joe came back out, unscathed. He seemed red-faced, though, and bothered by the argument. Pete didn’t come on the trip.”

  “Did Joe seem scared afterward?”

  “Nah, more annoyed than anything. By lunch, he was fine. He’s not one to hold on to grudges. Not like Pete.”

  Pete would be a convenient scapegoat for Jazzman, and Pete didn’t have a coffee cup with the dead man’s initial in his room. Besides, Pete still had the harmless knife factor, and it didn’t sound as if Joe had been too concerned about their fight. “I wasn’t here to gather your observations about Joe’s death,” Winston said. “I saw something in your room that I want to talk to you about.”

  “You were in my room?”

  “Just doing my job.”

  Jazzman nodded and scooted off the piano bench to sit on the microsuede couch. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  At that moment Winston saw Anastasia exit her room, swathed in dark blue. As if attracted by the tension in the air, she edged toward the conversation.

  Jazzman’s eyes flicked toward her. “Go ahead, Anastasia. Why don’t you join us? I got nothing to hide. Ask away, Mr. Detective.”

  Winston decided to hedge his bets. “I found Joe’s coffee cup in your room.” Jazzman colored and slid one hand across his close-shaven head. Winston had guessed right.

  “Can you tell me why?” Winston asked.

  “I always take several sips to prep before my playing. I find that coffee helps calm my nerves.”

  “I thought caffeine hypes you up.”

  Jazzman shrugged. “It works for me.”

  “He’s telling the truth.” Anastasia sidled in closer to the discussion. “I can vouch for Jazzman. He drank from Joe’s cup every morning.”

  “Couldn’t he get his own cup?” Winston asked.

  “I can’t.” Jazzman placed his hands crisscrossed against his lap. “On account of my condition.” He leaned toward Winston and whispered, “I have an enlarged prostate. Caffeine can cause irritation for me down there.”

&nb
sp; “You don’t have to whisper, Jazzman,” Anastasia said. “Everybody knows about your prostate problems.”

  “Shh!” Jazzman glanced around.

  “Anyway, it’s not an illegal substance, Jazzman. I heard on the news that coffee can even reduce your risk of prostate cancer. I, on the other hand,” Anastasia placed a bejeweled hand across her chest, “can never have a drop of coffee again. Oh, how I miss a good cappuccino. It calls to my European blood.”

  She batted her shining eyes at Winston, extending the silence of her martyred pose. Winston decided to ask, both to be polite and to move the conversation along. “How come you can’t drink coffee, Anastasia?”

  “Oh, on account of my brain aneurysm.”

  “You have an aneurysm?”

  “I know. That’s why I fill my mind with all this information.” She tapped one long jeweled finger against her temple. “You never know when it might go. In fact, coffee or any kind of stress might burst that blood vessel in my brain. So you just act real sweet to me, boys.” She patted Winston’s hand. “Anyway, I used to watch Jazzman sneak drinks of Joe’s piping hot beverage all the time. Sometimes he would even steal Joe’s entire cup and hide it in his room. Made me jealous, but I started to live vicariously though his sneaky gulps. You weren’t fooling anyone, Jazzman.”

  “Are you positive that Jazzman drank the coffee the day Joe died?” Winston asked.

  “Uh-huh. He did a startling rendition of my favorite song, ‘So What,’ right after the drink. Without the caffeine, he would have bumbling fingers. That’s how come I’m so sure.”

  Hmm, then the poison couldn’t have been in the coffee. Bricked—he’d run up against a wall, something that didn’t work any longer, namely the method of poison distribution. At least according to Anastasia.

  He wasn’t about to trust his investigation on a lonely lady trying to endear herself to any man in her sight. Maybe she’d even made up the part about her favorite song to cover for Jazzman. Winston decided to investigate the sideboard himself. He knew that Kristy was diligent in handing out the pills and making sure the patients swallowed only their allotted share. He’d seen her meticulous work on the first day of his visit.

  Winston slid over to the sideboard. Everybody had disappeared to their rooms, except for Anastasia and Jazzman who were deep in conversation on the couch. Perhaps all her frothy clothing would hide Winston’s actions from their view. He spun the combination on the lock, 10-26-18, the numbers still engrained in his head from his observation of Kristy spinning the dial. He checked the top shelf, where every medication held a neatly typewritten label and instructions for usage. Jazzman received Flomax and aspirin.

  It would be hard to gather a lot of his special medication, but what about the aspirin? Jazzman could complain about his arthritic fingers or fake a headache. Out of the kindness of her heart, Kristy might have given him a couple, and he could have stockpiled them. Or maybe he could have pretend-swallowed the pills. Winston shook the bottle. Unfortunately, the aspirin was almost all full, and the medication had just been filled last week.

  How else could somebody have slipped Joe something fatal? The IV bags. Joe needed his special solution four times a day. Maybe somebody had tampered with the bags. That would explain the rip marks in them, because the perpetrator would want to cover his or her tracks. He remembered that the bags had retained two smudged sets of prints, which he hadn’t matched during his fingerprinting analysis.

  Winston decided to call the medical company that supplied the special solution for kidney dialysis. He extracted Joe’s file from the bottom shelf of the sideboard. In five minutes, he’d found the company name. There was no contact information, though, so he climbed up the long staircase to enter Rob’s office and search for a Rolodex. A+ Health Supplies appeared on the first index card, and Winston picked up the ancient rotary phone on the desk. He called the agency and secured a representative named Marlene.

  Winston identified himself as a staff member of Sweet Breeze—it was pretty close to the truth. “I wanted to discuss a recent delivery,” he said. “It would have been dialysis solution for our client, Joe Sawyer.”

  He heard the distant tapping of a keyboard. “I’ve pulled up your agency’s account, Mr. Wong. I’m seeing a delivery that occurred three days ago.” The exact day Joe had died. “A generic 2.5% dextrose solution, not the usual EXTRANEAL. Is this what you’re referring to?”

  It was all fancy doctor language to him. “That sounds about right.”

  “Frank delivered four 1.5 L bags of dialysis solution to your facility.”

  “Are you sure you delivered the correct solution?”

  An edge of steel crept into Marlene’s voice. “We don’t make mistakes, sir. We have a rigid checks and balances system. An administrator oversees the supplies distribution, and it’s double-checked upon leaving our building. We employ quality personnel here.”

  “Oh.” It didn’t seem probable that someone from A+ Health Supplies would have rigged the liquid. To achieve that goal would have required a high-level conspiracy. “I’m sure we received the correct shipment, Marlene.”

  “I thought so. Any other questions?”

  “No, thank you.” At least, he didn’t have any more for her.

  He needed some inside information. He spied a Post-It note on the tabletop with Rob’s phone number: “Kristy, in case of emergency, my cell’s 408-TOO-COOL.”

  He dialed Rob up.

  “Kristy, is that you?” A flurry of noise rose up from the other end of the line.

  “Sorry to disappoint, buddy. It’s Winston.”

  “Winston, this better be good. You can’t imagine the number of Cosplay cuties here.”

  He’d seen enough footage of “costume play” girls from his ex-coworkers to visualize some of the skimpier outfits they wore. He’d better make this call seem important. “Rob, I’m thinking that Joe Sawyer may have been murdered.”

  “What? I think the crazy background noise is making me hear things.”

  “I think Joe’s death wasn’t accidental.”

  The noise retreated. Maybe Rob had moved to a quieter area of Comic-Con. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, it sounds like he’d been vomiting a lot when he died. I believe it was poison, and I think it was placed in his dialysis bags.”

  Rob let out a whistle. “Whoa, that’s some heady stuff.”

  “I know. So let me ask you a question. First, what do you think about the A+ Health Supplies outfit?”

  “Those guys are excellent. They’re very reliable and reputable.”

  “Where do you keep the solution? I didn’t see it in the sideboard.”

  “No, it’s in a special medication cabinet.”

  “Who has access to that?”

  An empty silence stretched down the line. “Well, you know that golden necklace Kristy wears around her neck?”

  “What about it?”

  “It holds the key to the cabinet.”

  “Does she ever take it off?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Winston cursed and slammed the earpiece down.

  CHAPTER 15

  Winston marched down the stairs, stomping on the polished ground, determined to locate Kristy. He couldn’t believe that he’d gotten sidetracked by her attractiveness: the curve of her figure, the tangle of her loose raven locks. The first rule of a real detective was to not be swayed by a pretty face.

  Halfway down the spiral staircase, he spotted Anastasia at the foot of the curve. She called up to him. “Are you okay?”

  “Peachy.”

  “I heard some noises coming from upstairs.”

  “I’ve got it under control.” He didn’t want to shove an old lady aside, but if duty needed him to…

  Anastasia started climbing up the stairs, huffing. “Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

  If Winston had been in a better mood, he might have laughed at the sight of frail Anastasia, her skirt billowing out and swa
llowing up her body. She looked like a ghost floating up the polished wood. To hasten her ascent, he saw her lift her gauzy chiffon dress so she wouldn’t tangle up her feet.

  He decided he would go around her slight figure instead of barreling into her as he continued going downstairs. Before he stepped around her, though, his eyes caught a flash of color on her feet. He looked again. “Are you wearing fuzzy socks?”

  The crazy rainbow-striped foot huggers clashed with the conservative dark blue fabric surrounding her.

  Anastasia looked down at her feet, startled to see the socks’ presence. “Oh. Those were a gift.”

  Winston’s eyes narrowed. How many pairs of lucky socks existed in a senior home? “Perhaps from Joe?” he asked.

  Anastasia stiffened and then groaned. “Yes. The man had no taste in hosiery. He wanted me to have a matching pair of socks.”

  “Can I see those?”

  She gave him a puzzled look but pulled off the socks and handed them over. They were definitely fitted for a woman’s feet. So not the same ones where Joe had stashed his life savings.

  “What happened to his pair?”

  “I’m not sure. They disappeared from the drawer they’re usually in.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Oh. Well, it’s no big deal. Joe helped me out, all right? He would sometimes pull a few dollars out of those socks and, bless his soul, chip in toward my jewelry. I figured if there was any money left, maybe I could use it for a memorial gift.”

  “Several bucks? Couldn’t have gone very far, what with all that pretty bling of yours.”

  Anastasia sighed and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “Look, I’m not a Russian heiress, despite what you may have heard. These jewels are fake. Most of my clothes I get from the thrift store.” Her head drooped. “I’m actually an orphan and was adopted by a fisherman and a seamstress.”

  Winston felt bad pressing the issue further. He touched her bony shoulder. “Who knows, Anastasia? You don’t know what kind of family background you came from. It might’ve been royalty.”