MacRae nodded as he cautiously sipped some soup. “I’m sure that’s already happened, because assisted suicide is still against the law in Connecticut, unfortunately.”
“That sacred law you’ve sworn to uphold no matter what,” I reminded him.
“The law a lot of good, caring people are working very hard to change, just as it’s already been changed in other states. I’m confident that it will happen here, too. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Time Margaret didn’t have,” I said sadly. “She seemed to be a lovely person, someone I easily could have befriended.” I cut my eyes at him. “Were she and Bitsy and your wife friends for a long time?”
He put down his mug and wiped his mouth carefully on the napkin Shirley had provided.
“Margaret was a beautiful person inside and out,” he chuckled, “and didn’t she just know it? We have all been friends since college. Margaret was so pretty and lively—funny, too—that the fellows were always swarming around her, even when she whipped them on the tennis court,” he recalled fondly.
“I have a daughter just like that. Margaret never married?”
“She came close once, but her fiancé was killed in Vietnam. That damned, senseless war decimated the male population of an entire generation,” he muttered angrily.
“You and Douglas Grant were luckier?”
He tapped his left ear. “A partial hearing loss from a childhood accident saved my skin. For Douglas, it was a combination of graduate school and a very high draft number. Tom, Margaret’s fiancé, wasn’t much of a student, and he was in perfect health. Look where that got him.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “He was a hell of a good guy. Margaret never really got over it.”
My heart bled for Margaret all over again. “But you remained good friends, the best of friends, judging from the others’ willingness to be with her on October ninth.”
He met my eyes defiantly. “I would have been there, too, believe me, but Margaret wouldn’t hear of it. She said it was too risky for someone in my line of work to give even the appearance of involvement, that I had to live to fight the good fight another day. Those were her words.” His voice was raw with emotion. “She kissed my cheek and went out the door with the others at nine-thirty just as if it were any other evening, and I never saw her again.”
“Did you know what was about to take place?”
“I suspected, because we had obviously discussed her wishes before then, but she wouldn’t tell me specifically when. They all said they were going to watch some PBS travelogue, and they knew I had work I had to do. Janet told me the truth when she returned shortly before midnight.”
“Margaret meant it as a kindness, I’m sure,” I said gently.
“One of her many,” he agreed and returned to the subject at hand. “So now that you have seen the truth for yourself, can you assure Ginny Preston that nothing illegal occurred?”
I chose my words with care. “I can tell her that nothing illegal happened on Vista View property that night with regard to Margaret’s death.”
He looked at me closely. “But where did she get the Seconal, right?”
“More precisely, from whom? I know it wasn’t from Dr. Petersen, or at least that’s what Margaret said, and she was pretty convincing.”
“No, it wasn’t Petersen, may he be everlastingly damned.”
His vehemence startled me. If anyone could understand the legalities confronting the doctor, it was he. “I think the Dr. Petersen’s position may be softening somewhat,” I told him, remembering what Ada had told me about the prescriptions for her and Lavinia. In combination, they would surely constitute a lethal dose, and the doctor would be well aware of it.
“I won’t even ask how you know that. At any rate, I don’t know how she got the pills. They wouldn’t tell me that either. I’m just glad she was able to get what she needed. I have my suspicions, of course.”
“As do I,” I concurred.
“And you need to know if you are correct.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I do, but that doesn’t mean I’ll necessarily do anything with the information.”
“Ah, yes, the old law versus justice dilemma. It crops up more often than I would have believed possible forty years ago when I was studying for the bar.”
“If you had known it then, would you still have chosen to become a lawyer?”
“Probably not,” he said shortly. I left it at that.
~
On Friday morning I dropped my briefcase at the sales desk and went directly to Ginny’s office. There were two conversations I needed to put behind me today, and this was the first of them. I rapped lightly on the doorframe.
“Got a few minutes for me?”
She looked up from her computer screen, surprised to see me. “Of course, Kate. Come in.”
I pulled the door shut and took a seat. As usual these days, Ginny looked pale and tense. I hoped what I had to tell her would finally change that. For the next five minutes she leaned forward on her desk, shoulders hunched, hands tightly clasped. Her eyes never left my face as I told her what I knew and how I knew it, omitting all names except Margaret’s.
“Margaret took her own life to escape an ugly, lingering death a few weeks or months down the road. It was her choice, although an awful one to have to make. She wasn’t coerced or unduly influenced in any way. Most importantly, she didn’t suffer physically. I’m sure there was a lot of mental anguish involved in making the decision, but once that was accomplished, she seemed to be at peace with it.”
Ginny’s features smoothed out during my discourse, and she leaned back in her chair, but her eyes were still troubled.
“Some people would say that by having the means available to end her life, she was influenced to do so far too hastily.”
“Some would, I know, but that theory hasn’t been proven to be true statistically,” I protested, drawing upon the information I had gleaned during my research. “In fact, the greatest impact of the death with dignity laws may lie in the peace of mind it gives to those who will never use it but know it is an available option. Many more lethal prescriptions are requested under the laws than are actually used. Just knowing they have the choice to end unbearable suffering, if it comes to that, seems to free patients to choose to live as long as they feel they have any quality of life. They become voluntary survivors, not helpless sufferers.”
Ginny nodded, but her eyes remained haunted. “That’s the legal situation, but even unassisted suicide is not God’s will,” she insisted. “Only He can decide when a human life should end.”
I sighed but refused to be drawn into an argument with her that neither of us would ever win. “We disagree on the moral aspects, Ginny. I believe an individual has the right to end his or her suffering. Even believers in God have to agree that He gave human beings free will, which admittedly hasn’t worked out all that well.”
She looked at me sharply but didn’t comment further. “What was Dr. Petersen’s involvement in this? If he knowingly prescribed a lethal dose of barbiturates, he technically assisted Margaret’s suicide, and that’s illegal. No matter what his reasons for helping her might have been, I would have to report him. At the very least, he could not be allowed to continue here.”
“He didn’t give her the prescription, Ginny. I know that for a fact.”
She opened her mouth to ask how I knew, then shut it again. “Any thoughts on Angela Roncaro?”
“Nothing concrete, but if there were any similarities between her situation and Margaret’s, I feel certain I would know it by now. It was only Margaret’s dying so soon after Angela that made that connection in your mind.”
“Connection? I’ve been obsessed,” she snorted.
“In that case I think obsession is contagious, because I caught it from you,” I said in an attempt at levity, “but no, I’m convinced that Angela’s death was exactly what it appeared to be, from natural causes. So can you put this behind you now? Do you really want
to leave your job here?”
She got up from her chair and paced to the window, hugging herself as if for warmth. “I do. I really believe it’s time for me to go. I’m tired, Kate,” she said simply, and I knew that it was true. She made a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass all of Vista View along with its staff and residents. “I don’t mean just this particular situation, although God knows that’s true enough. I’m tired of leaking roofs and quarrels among the maids and power outages and late deliveries. I’m sick of finicky spreadsheets and boring meetings and endless reports to the directors. Most of all, the feeling of always being responsible for whatever goes on here has exhausted me. Oh, I know what you’re going to say.” She flashed a wry grin over her shoulder. “Rog has been telling me the same thing for years, that I assume too much responsibility too much of the time. No one person is that indispensable, he says, and he’s right.” She chuckled. “Leave it to him to take me down a peg while seeming to sympathize with me.”
I nodded in understanding. “The backhanded compliment. It’s something I get frequently from my loving husband. We want to be admired for our efficiency and capability, but the truth is, they mostly resent us for it, except when they need us to do something for them, of course.”
This time she laughed outright. “You’ve got it.” She returned to her chair and sat. “I don’t want to be that person anymore,” she said flatly. “Let somebody else be the efficient one. Even without this latest drama—and I do thank you most sincerely for clearing it up for me—I was ready to let go of the reins. Poor Margaret was just the straw that broke this camel’s back.”
She looked through her office window into the lobby, where residents trickled by in twos and threes on their way to the dining room for coffee and conversation or perhaps a hand of cards.
“Vista View was a very new concept when I was first hired, this type of full-service retirement community. It was exciting, engrossing, and I felt like a real pioneer. The problems were just speed bumps then, but now …” Her voice trailed off.
“It’s getting old,” I suggested.
“Exactly. It’s someone else’s turn.”
“But moving to North Carolina, Ginny. That seems so drastic. Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Not at all,” she responded cheerfully, “which is why we’ve decided not to sell the house, at least not yet. We’ll lease it while we spend some time down south with Denny and his family. We’ll rent something close to them, but not too close,” she joked, sounding more like her old self by the minute. “I don’t want to alarm my daughter-in-law. And then we’ll see. Maybe we’ll love it, or maybe we’ll find out that a little bit of this grandparent stuff goes a long way.”
“I hear that,” I told her, reminded of my own impending change in status.
“The point is, nothing will be irrevocable.”
I smiled my approval. “It sounds like a plan to me.”
“You’ll handle the leasing arrangements for us at this end?” She asked the question tentatively, as if she wasn’t entirely certain I would want to help her.
“You bet,” I assured her. “Just let me know when you’re ready to hammer out the details.”
As I had hoped, some of the tension had drained from Ginny’s face. I rose to go. When I opened her office door, an apron-clad kitchen worker was preparing to knock, a mutinous expression on his face. Behind me, Ginny’s phone started to shrill. I waved a quick goodbye.
“Here’s to retirement,” she said with a shrug. For the first time in a very long while, she looked almost happy.
I sighed and trudged toward the dining room. Ginny’s load might feel lighter now, but the kitchen employee had reminded me I had one more difficult conversation to get through before I could feel that I had truly done my duty.
~
Tommy agreed to join me during his coffee break, and we strolled out to my car, out of earshot of others, to drink the coffee he had thoughtfully brought with him.
“I wasn’t sure how you take yours,” he said, producing a fistful of sweeteners and creamers from his jacket pocket. I chose a Splenda and stirred it into my coffee slowly. I was uncertain how to proceed, but Tommy took it upon himself to break the ice.
“There’s something else you need to know about Margaret Butler, right?”
I nodded. “There is, Tommy, but before I ask you about it, I want you to know this is just between you and me. I need to know for myself, because that’s the way I am, not for Ginny Preston or the administrators of Vista View or … anyone else.”
The muscles in his jaw clenched, and I thought he might refuse to talk to me, but he finally looked up. “So ask,” was all he said.
I looked at him steadily. “There was a piece of paper Ginny found in Margaret’s study while she was in there packing things up. It had a notation that wasn’t in Margaret’s handwriting. It seemed to be a reminder about a meeting with someone whose initials are T.G. on the Thursday night she died. Naturally, we thought of you.”
“Naturally,” he said sourly. He worked on his coffee for a few seconds, considering what to say.
“I wasn’t there the night she died, so that note must have referred to the previous week. I went there late on a Thursday to give her a massage and …” he paused, and to my surprise, his voice caught with emotion.
“And what, Tommy? What else were you there to do?”
He composed himself with difficulty. “I delivered one hundred capsules of Seconal sodium I had purchased illegally for her at her request.”
I nodded sadly. Of all the people who were peripherally involved in this drama, Tommy was the one with the most to lose. For one thing, he was the youngest. For another, he had clearly committed a crime, and if he were convicted, he would never become a licensed therapist in this or any other state.
“Who did you get the pills from, Tommy?” I asked faintly.
He lifted his chin and looked me in the eye. “Someone I knew I could trust to supply pharmaceutical grade medication. I had to be certain about the quality. I won’t tell you his name.”
“Then at least tell me why. How could you risk your entire future like that for a woman you barely knew?”
The stubborn set of his jaw softened. “I knew her very well, better than most of my other clients. A massage is a personal service, and I guess she felt she could talk to me. I noticed the scars, of course, and I knew she’d been having a lot of pain. She told me about her medical situation, what she had already been through and the awful death she faced in the very near future. There wasn’t enough time left to establish residence in the Northwest, so she asked Dr. Petersen to help her.” He choked up again.
“But he refused?” I prompted gently.
“He wouldn’t do it,” Tommy spit out bitterly, “and he calls himself a physician.” The anger on his face and in his words aged him by a decade, and my heart went out to him. Growing up is difficult under the best of circumstances. Tommy had experienced more than his share of hardship, but he had somehow retained his compassion. He really was a special kid.
“You can’t do that ever again,” I told him. “There’s too much at stake, your whole future.”
“More than you know,” he mumbled.
“What do you mean?”
He looked at me again, and his eyes were wet. I held my breath.
I went to see her lawyer, that MacRae guy who lives at Vista View, first thing this morning. He called and said he had something for me from Margaret, so I went to his office before work. He handed me an envelope. Inside was a Certificate of Deposit that matures in six months and a note from Margaret saying it was for my future.”
The tears were streaming down his face now. “It’s enough for college, even medical school, if I invest it right. MacRae said he’d help me with that part.” His voice broke as he choked out another few words. “She signed the note ‘Love, Margaret.’”
He buried his face in his hands and sobbed, for all the world like a broken-hearted chi
ld who had lost yet another mother. I rummaged in my pocket for a tissue packet and patted his back awkwardly, waiting for him to cry himself out.
“You cannot do this again,” I repeated softly.
He honked into the tissues and mopped his face defiantly. “I can’t promise that.”
Looking at him and examining my own conscience, I knew I couldn’t ask it of him.
“Okay, Tommy,” I said. “It’s okay.”
Twenty
The day I had been dreading for so long had arrived. I congratulated myself on having staved off the birthday party that almost inevitably would have been staged by my well-meaning friends and family and looked forward to a matinee performance of Jersey Boys, the show Ginny and Rog had enjoyed so much, followed by a quiet dinner with Armando.
First, though, we were meeting Margo and John at the diner for a quick cup of coffee. Halloween or not, my partners had informed me they both had full schedules for the day. Margo had several showings during the afternoon, and Strutter had yet another open house at a Maple Street property that remained stubbornly unsold after nearly four months. “Today is the day,” she had told me that morning on the phone. “I can feel it in my bones. Sorry I can’t join you for coffee, but duty calls, so happy birthday, Girl. Here’s to the next fifty!”
I laughed at her optimism. “Thanks for the thought anyway. Good luck with that open house.”
As we turned onto Charter Road and drove toward the Town Line Diner, I enjoyed my opportunity to view the Halloween decorations on display. It was possible to pick out the houses where children were in residence by the arrays of jack-o’-lanterns on the front steps and the skeletons, witches and black cats dangling from trees and bushes. I knew that by five o’clock the neighborhood streets would be alive with little ghosts and goblins, discreetly chaperoned by watchful parents, who would collect more candy than they could eat in a lifetime.
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