I glared at him. How dare he back me into a corner like this? Ginny Preston had a colossal nerve dragging me into this mess in the first place. And how could Margaret … what? I glanced around and noted that the solarium had emptied while Bert and I had been talking. Still, I knew all too well that the walls can have ears. I hitched my chair closer to Bert’s chaise.
“What happens on this DVD?” I hissed at him.
“Nothing illegal and, in my opinion, nothing immoral. A terminally ill woman delivers herself gently and quickly from a fate quite literally worse than death.”
I blinked. “Which would be what?”
“The final stages of liver cancer. It’s a very bad way to go, debilitating, disfiguring and ultimately agonizing. There’s no treatment for it. Radiation and chemotherapy won’t touch it. All they could do was remove the mass surgically and hope they got it all, but they didn’t get lucky this time.”
“That’s good enough for me,” I said, trying to hand the DVD back to him, but he wouldn’t take it.
“Sorry, Gorgeous, but that won’t cut it. You need to take it now, and when you’re done with it, get it back to the CCD. What with one thing and another,” he tapped his chest over his heart, “I might not be around to produce it if it’s needed for the protection of the others.”
“What others?” I asked wearily. “Who else is on this recording, Bert?”
He glanced around cautiously before replying. “Friends of the deceased,” he said finally. “You won’t see any of them, but I’m sure you’ll be able to figure out who we are.”
~
By the time I arrived at Gerald MacRae’s office, I was spoiling for a fight. I had barely known Margaret Butler. I’d had nothing whatsoever to do with her so-called self-deliverance, and I refused to be the keeper of the facts surrounding her demise. MacRae had been her friend and her attorney, so he could take custody of the damned DVD.
I stomped right past poor Shirley and into MacRae’s inner sanctum, shutting the door firmly behind me. MacRae was studying documents spread out on his desk and looked up in surprise. I dropped into one of the chairs in front of his desk and placed the DVD squarely in front of him. He examined the label and looked at me.
“I need some legal advice,” I said without preamble. “I was given this recording by a member of the Citizens for Compassionate Decisions and asked to watch it. Ginny Preston, who is the business manager of Vista View, as you know, has some serious questions about the circumstances of Margaret Butler’s death and needs assurance that nothing illegal occurred on the premises on her watch. I’m told that this DVD will show me exactly what happened on October 9th, and I should watch it and decide for myself whether anything illegal—that is, assisted suicide—took place. Then I can tell Ginny the truth. She’ll believe me, because she trusts me.”
MacRae regarded me calmly. “That seems clear enough. What do you need my advice about?”
“I need to know what my choices are here if I do see something illegal. Do I follow the letter of the law and inflict what I personally believe would be an enormous injustice, or do I serve justice, in my opinion, and take my chances with the law by not reporting what I know to be true?”
“You may not have to do either, Kate. You may not see evidence of anything illegal on this DVD, in which case there will be no decision to make. If you do see what you believe to be an assisted or coerced suicide, then you’ll have to decide between the law and your sense of justice, bearing in mind that any illegality is purely a matter of geography.”
“I’d prefer that you watch it,” I told him.
“I can’t do that. Let me try to make you understand. As a lay person, you have a choice. I, who am sworn to uphold the law whether or not I happen to agree with it, do not. If I see someone other than a client of mine doing something that is illegal in the state of Connecticut, as an officer of the court I would be obliged to report it.”
I stared at him, frustrated, and dealt my last card. “What if that person is your wife?” It was a nasty swipe, but MacRae didn’t even blink.
“A husband cannot be compelled to testify against his wife,” he said shortly. Check and mate. “You already know what’s on the DVD, don’t you?”
I met his gaze steadily. “Yes, I believe I do, but I haven’t seen it for myself. Until I do, I can’t know for sure.”
“Why do you need to know?” he asked.
“Because I do!” I almost shouted at him. “I’ve been yanked this way and that for weeks now by people demanding to know the truth about Margaret Butler’s death and possibly Angela Roncaro’s, as well. I’ve been harassed and vandalized and misdirected, and I’ve upset a lot of innocent people with my persistent inquiries. Despite everything, I’ve done my best to get to the bottom of this situation for the sake of a friend I think may be having a nervous breakdown, but until now, all I’ve gathered is a lot of half-truths and innuendoes. I’m finally in a position to learn the truth, and learn it, I will. I need to know who I can trust, Gerald.”
He picked up the DVD and stood tapping the plastic case against his thumbnail. “Then watch this,” he said, holding it out to me.
I dropped the case into my purse and headed for the door as he returned to his desk and his perusal of the papers on it. “If you have any questions after you’ve seen it, I’ll be around,” he said. He didn’t look up as I let myself out.
When I arrived home, I was surprised to find Armando’s car already in the garage. I was even more surprised to find him in the kitchen, adding seasonings to the stew I had left in the crock pot that morning. At the sight of him, my eyes filled with tears.
He replaced the lid and came to give me a hug. “What is it, Cara?”
“Can you wait a little longer for your dinner?” I sniffled. “I need you to watch something with me.”
Eighteen
Margaret Butler moved into the frame and seated herself. She was a petite brunette, stylishly coiffed and made up, and wore elegantly embroidered lounging pajamas of turquoise silk. She was, quite simply, stunning, and she smiled into the camera as if she knew it.
“My name is Margaret Marie Butler, and I requested that this recording be made at my apartment at the Vista View Retirement Community on October 9, 2011.” She rattled off her date of birth and Social Security number. “It is my hope that no one will ever need to view this recording, but should it become necessary, I want to assure you that I am of sound mind. At least that’s what my physician and my attorney have stated in the notarized document that is in the possession of Gerald R. MacRae, Esquire, of Wethersfield, Connecticut, along with my last will and testament and certain other instructions regarding the disposal of this body that is failing me so appallingly,” she smiled wryly, “and one or two private gifts that I have asked him to distribute two weeks after the reading of my will.”
She paused to collect her thoughts. “I know this must seem somewhat bizarre to you, a staged final appearance in front of a video camera, but I’m a planner by profession and by nature, and I simply cannot leave to chance the possibility that my loyal, generous friends who are standing by me even as I speak might suffer any consequences as a result of my actions.” She smiled off to one side and blew a kiss.
“What is happening here tonight is a bon voyage celebration that has been orchestrated entirely by me before I make my final journey. It has been months in the planning. Allow me to give you a little history.”
She paused to consult an index card, holding it up to the light.
“A year ago November, I experienced acute abdominal pain unlike anything I had felt before. Until that time I had enjoyed excellent health and took care to keep myself fit, so I was alarmed. Rightly so, as it happened. A CT scan revealed a large mass attached to my liver that turned out to be cancerous. Radiation and chemotherapy were not viable treatment options, and that left only surgery to remove the mass. For a while after that, it looked as if I might have dodged the bullet, but then the cancer returned even m
ore aggressively.”
At this point Margaret gazed bleakly into the camera. “I would prefer not to die just yet, but my only alternative is to become grossly distorted by accumulating fluid, be entirely bedridden within weeks, and die in agony despite being kept incoherent or unconscious on massive doses of morphine. Already the pain comes fiercely and more frequently, and I’m told I’ll soon lose control of my bodily functions.” She leaned forward and confessed, “As my friends know all too well, I’m far too vain to tolerate that. How many women do you know who would actually have their hair and makeup done professionally to look good for the coroner’s staff? I do miss my diamond studs, though.”
She touched her earlobes and laughed merrily. A couple of half-hearted chuckles could be heard in the background.
“Sorry, that’s the vodka talking. It helps the pills work faster, you know, especially on a practically empty stomach. Anyway, I decided weeks ago that I was not going to blow up to two hundred pounds and die half out of my head on morphine with fluid oozing out of the pores in my legs. All I asked was to die with a few shreds of dignity, but that is only legally possible these days in Oregon, Washington, and a few other locations I’ve forgotten, and there wasn’t enough time for me to establish residence in those places. So I asked my physician, Dr. Lars Petersen, for a lethal dose of barbiturates, but can you believe it? He flatly refused to do it. He would attest to my soundness of mind as of a few days ago, but that was all. I made him feel really bad about it, but he wouldn’t budge. In a way, I hope he does see this recording. If he learns how much he added to my troubles instead of helping me when I needed him most, maybe he won’t take such a hard line with the next poor soul who turns to him.” She shook her head angrily.
“Fortunately, I was able to purchase what I needed elsewhere, one hundred capsules of Seconal sodium. I’ve emptied the contents into this glass.” She held it up. “Nobody did it for me. I took care of it myself ten minutes ago, and now I’m going to add six ounces of room temperature water, stir it up and drink it. I should be asleep and headed for a coma within two minutes and at my final destination in an hour or so. I’ve asked a few friends to see me out and see that everything is tidied away before the discovery of my remains sometime this weekend.”
Margaret consulted the card in her hand one more time. “Oh, yes. You need to know that this is entirely my decision, and no, I do not wish to change my mind. I shall drink this mixture, which I am well aware is lethal, of my own free will. And so, farewell.”
The camera left Margaret’s face and moved down to a small table. She poured a pre-measured amount of water into the glass of Seconal powder and stirred vigorously. Then she stood and carried the glass to her bed just a few feet away. She climbed onto it and arranged several pillows behind her, then held up the glass in a toast to her off-camera friends. “I have to do this fairly quickly now. Thank you all so very much for your friendship. I love you all. God bless you.”
Without hesitation she put the glass to her lips and drank down the contents in one smooth sequence. It took her perhaps ten seconds to empty the glass.
“Godspeed, Sweetie,” said Janet MacRae.
“Have a safe trip,” added Bitsy Grant.
“See you when we get there,” followed up a baritone voice that I felt sure belonged to Douglas Grant.
“Yuck,” was Margaret’s only comment. “Kind of woody tasting but not as nasty as I was led to believe.” Her eyes were already closing as she handed the empty glass to someone. In just a few seconds, she sighed deeply. “Oh, this is so easy,” she murmured. “People need to know how easy it is. Nobody needs to suffer at the end. Thank you for my wonderful day.”
When it became clear that those would be Margaret’s last words, the camera moved away from her face and backed off. The operator appeared to sit in the chair Margaret had occupied previously, and the recording continued, uninterrupted, until Margaret drew her last breath some twenty-five minutes later.
~
Armando and I sat in the double recliner with Jasmine curled up between us. Despite the peacefulness of the scene we had just witnessed, we felt chilled and craved the warmth of our fireplace and some wine, which we now sipped as Gracie enjoyed the blaze. A wood fire was still a novel experience for her, and she watched the play of the flames with fascination as her ears swiveled at every snap and crackle.
Armando’s eyes had a faraway expression as he idly stroked the old cat’s fur.
“Would you do that for me if I needed you to?” I asked him.
“If the alternative was as ugly as that described by Senora Butler, and it was your wish, of course, Cara. It is my hope that it will not come to that for either of us.”
“We all hope that,” I agreed, and we were quiet again for a time.
“What will you tell your business manager friend about what we have seen this evening?” he asked after a while.
“I’ll tell her the truth. That’s what she says she wants, and that’s what I’m going to give her.”
“You will tell her everything?” I knew his question referred to the voices I had heard and identified at the end of the recording.
“I’ll tell her only what she needs to know, that I saw a recording of what transpired in Margaret’s apartment on the evening of October ninth. I saw Margaret consume a lethal dose of barbiturates entirely voluntarily to spare herself an otherwise miserable and unavoidable death. Nothing illegal occurred on Vista View premises, and that’s all she needs to know. There’s no sadistic maniac preying on the single female residents and no suicide cult in operation. Period, end of story.”
“And when she asks where you obtained this recording?”
“I’ll make it perfectly clear right up front that I’m not going to reveal that information. Journalists have the right to protect their sources, and so do I,” I laughed, “even if I’m not a reporter for The Hartford Courant.”
He chuckled with me. “Do you think there will finally be an end to this then?”
I thought about the last conversation I’d had with Ginny and how much more reasonable she had seemed, but I knew appearances could be deceiving.
“I really hope so, but I can’t say for certain. All I can do is tell her the truth and hope it puts her mind at ease about the legality, if not the morality, of what happened. Even she will have to agree that people have the right to make their own moral judgments.” I paused. “Although there is one loose end I need to tie up for my own peace of mind.”
A slow smile spread across Armando’s face, and he nodded to himself with satisfaction. “I was wondering how long that would take to come to the surface. You need to know from whom Senora Butler obtained the prescription medication, since her physician would not accommodate her, is that not it?”
I looked at him in amazement. “That’s it exactly, but I think I may already have the answer or at least a part of it. There was a piece of paper Ginny showed me that she found in Margaret’s apartment when she was packing things up.”
Again Armando surprised me. “The notation about the appointment for sex, or so she thought, with the handsome young Latino may have been for something else altogether,” he smiled.
“You’re getting awfully good at this detective stuff,” I told him. “Even I didn’t think of that until thirty seconds ago.”
“That is because you are not Latina. All of us South Americans are drug dealers, did you not know? At least that is what you will learn from the police television shows.” He shrugged with good humor.
I looked at him with affection and put down my wine glass. “Then I think you should definitely change fields. You’re not making full use of your true talents. So what do you say, Handsome, can I make an appointment with you?”
His hand left Jasmine and strayed to my thigh as he smiled into my eyes. “I believe I may have some time available right now, if that is convenient.”
“Works for me,” I assured him, happy to return to the land of the very much alive.
Late Thursday morning I telephoned Gerald MacRae. He picked up the phone immediately, almost as if he had been waiting for my call. “Why don’t you come by now?” he suggested. “Shirley is heating up some delicious Italian wedding soup for lunch, and if I know Shirley, there’s plenty to share.”
Promising Strutter that I would return in an hour, I dashed to my car through the cold, steady rain that had moved up the eastern seaboard overnight. Shirley’s soup was sounding better and better.
“Thank you so much. This looks and smells just wonderful,” I told her as she brought steaming mugs in to Gerald and me. I was making an extra effort to be gracious after my surliness of the previous day.
“Oh, it is,” she replied serenely, fussing with spoons and napkins. “I made it myself from the recipe my mother gave to me on my wedding day nearly sixty years ago. My husband still loves it.”
I swallowed my astonishment as I imagined a union lasting six decades. “Then it must be very special,” I managed with my warmest smile, and she left MacRae’s office, pink-cheeked with pleasure.
“You’re feeling better,” MacRae observed. He sat in the second visitors’ chair companionably and stirred his soup to cool it a bit.
I nodded as I blew across the top of my own mug. “In one way, yes. In another, not so much.”
“Would you care to elaborate? Anything you say here is protected by attorney-client privilege, so you can speak freely.”
I considered what I wanted to say to him. “Watching a woman deliberately end her life is not something I ever want to do again. She had to make a heart-wrenching choice between a horrible, so-called natural death from liver cancer and voluntary suicide, which has to be an oxymoron. Nobody commits suicide voluntarily. They feel compelled to do it when the alternative, living with their physical or emotional burdens, is too terrible to bear and has no chance of improving. So I’m glad she at least had some choice. I just wish she hadn’t had to feel like a criminal whose friends might be accused of abetting her in some heinous act, or worse, influencing her to do this thing. The poor woman had more than enough to deal with already. In this case, she was still able to mix and drink the lethal potion herself, but what if her symptoms had made it impossible for her to do that? What if she waited too long and had to ask one of her loyal friends or relatives to help her and risk imprisonment?”
Dying Wishes Page 17