Death With Dignity

by E B Corbin

  “What? No! Of course not. I told you that. But I’m so tired of fighting it. You can give the money to Stacy. She’s listed as an alternate beneficiary on my wife’s life insurance too. It seems like the easiest option.”

  “Then whoever actually smothered your wife will go unpunished,” Henry said. “Is that what you want?”

  “Maybe . . . I don’t know. I’m sure whoever did it thought it was the right thing to do. It was hard watching Mary Margaret suffer. I just can’t comprehend . . .” Norman’s voice broke on a sob.

  Henry leaned forward in his chair. “We’re not trying to upset you, sir. If you’d rather we drop looking into it, I’m sure Sam would have no problem with that.”

  He glanced at Sam, hoping she agreed. It might be overstepping his position, but he could see nothing to be gained by pushing these people any further. Sam bit her lip, lost in thought. Whether in anger or agreement, he couldn’t tell.

  An insistent knock on the door to his office broke the silence. Norman stared at the door as if it suddenly became the gateway to hell. Before he could speak, the door opened and his determined receptionist rushed in.

  Norman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Helen, you shouldn’t have come in on a Sunday. You need a day off as much as anyone.”

  Helen ignored his words—her head down as she dug through her purse. She came out with a small envelope that she waved at Norman. “I know, but I had to give you this. I think it’s important.”

  “You could have waited until tomorrow,” Norman told her.

  “It’s from Betty. She told me to give it to you if anything happened to her.” A tear leaked down her cheek and she swatted it away.

  “What is it?” Norman looked at the envelope as if it were a snake.

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. She made me promise to give it to you immediately.” Helen’s eyes were already red and puffy from crying and she swiped at her nose.

  “All right.” Norman took the envelope and set it to the side of his desk.

  “You have to read it now, please. Betty insisted I make certain you read it.” Helen looked at Sam and Henry for the first time. “Would you mind leaving Norman alone for a few minutes?”

  Henry started to object, but Helen cut him off.

  “Betty said I should only give it to you when you were alone.” Helen grasped her hands and wrung them together. “I never thought you’d have visitors today.”

  “All right.” Norman’s gaze moved between Sam and Henry. “If you would excuse me for a moment or two?”

  “No problem,” Henry said before Sam could object.

  “We’ll wait in the other room,” Sam said. She still had questions to ask Norman and she wasn’t about to leave without knowing what was in that envelope.

  Helen led the way to the reception area. She plunked her purse on her desk and turned to Sam. “You don’t need to stay. I’m sure if there’s anything of importance in the letter Norman will let you know.”

  Sam took a seat in a chair in front of the large window. “And that’s exactly why we’re staying.”

  Helen scowled.

  Henry decided to try to smooth things over. “You don’t seem to like us very much.”

  “I hardly know you,” Helen replied. “I just think that there are some things that should be kept private.”

  “Even if it’s something that might exonerate your boss?” Sam asked.

  Helen deflated before their eyes. She sank into the chair behind her desk, propped her elbows on the desktop, and rubbed her forehead. “I don’t think that will happen,” she muttered into her hand.

  Sam remained silent while Henry pulled a chair closer to Helen’s desk. He tried to find a position that would alleviate the ache in his ankle, but realized that was impossible and settled for taking his weight off it.

  He made his question as gentle as possible, not wanting to cause the woman any more distress than necessary. “Do you think Betty smothered Mary Margaret?”

  Helen let out a strangled cry. “No . . . no, I don’t see how she could do such a thing. Mary Margaret was her friend! Why are you trying to accuse her?”

  “I’m not accusing her. I just wondered if you thought it was possible. She might have thought she was helping.”

  “Betty would never. After what she went through with her husband, I can’t see her taking matters into her own hands with Mary Margaret.”

  “What happened with Betty’s husband?” Henry asked, thankful that Sam remained silent and gave him the lead.

  “It was, I guess, twenty years ago or so that Gerald was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Inoperable, according to the doctors. Over time, Gerald grew worse. He couldn’t speak for the last few months of his life.” Helen took a deep breath. “She went through hell trying to save that man and never gave up.”

  “Maybe she learned a lesson.”

  Helen snorted. “The only lesson she learned was how heartless the system was at that time. This was before the Death with Dignity law went into effect. It had passed the legislature, but it was so controversial several lawsuits were filed to try to stop it. Gerald begged her to end his life when he could still talk. Much as she loved him, she couldn’t do it. She waited, hoping it would become legal.

  “She went into debt trying all kinds of remedies—radiation and chemo, then homeopathic. She even had some kind of shaman trying to save him.” Helen shook her head. “I can’t believe she would give up on Mary Margaret and end her life. She most certainly would not smother her when she could legally get something from the doctor.”

  Listening to the woman from her seat by the window, Sam thought it was possible Betty had learned her lesson from what she went through with her husband. She could have been hoping to spare Norman and Stacy the same pain. But Sam didn’t want to press the issue. Henry seemed to be more than capable of earning Helen’s trust.

  “Then you don’t think she committed suicide because she felt guilty about her friend?”

  Helen grabbed a Kleenex from a box in her desk and wiped the tears from her eyes. She stared at Henry with resolve. “I don’t think it was suicide at all.”

  At a loss, Henry glanced at Sam for her input.

  Sam straightened in her chair. “There was an empty bottle of pills at her bedside. The police seemed to think she took them.”

  “That’s baloney. Betty knew taking any old pills would not guarantee she’d die. And she had no way to get her hands on those special suicide pills that doctors are allowed to prescribe. She researched all that stuff when her husband begged her before our law for assisted suicide went into effect. Despite what books and movies would have you believe, it’s hard to swallow enough pills to end your life.” Helen paused to wipe a tear from her eye. “Besides, Betty was jumpy and frightened of something ever since Mary Margaret died.”

  “Do you think she knew who smothered her?” Henry asked.

  Tears streamed from Helen’s eyes. “I don’t know! She wouldn’t tell me what was bothering her. Said it was best if I didn’t know.”

  Henry stretched his arm across the desk and took Helen’s hand. “It’s okay. There was nothing you could do if Betty wouldn’t open up to you.”

  “They were my best friends for over fifty years!” Helen cried. “Now I’ve lost them both.”

  Sam stood and approached Helen’s desk. She awkwardly patted the woman on the back while she begged Henry with her eyes to do something. He lifted both eyebrows and twisted his mouth in reply. He had nothing.

  She held onto the desk and stooped so as not to hover over the crying woman. “I’m sorry we have to ask you these questions. I know it’s hard for you. But we’re trying to prove Norman didn’t kill his wife.”

  “What if he did?” Helen cried. “And what if he killed Betty too?”

  “Do you really think him capable of that?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know. Someone did. Someone Betty trusted enough to let into her house.”

  Sam looked up and s
aw Norman standing in the hall, his face as white as the paste she had used in kindergarten. He seemed stunned, unable to move or speak. Sam hoped he hadn’t heard his receptionist accuse him of murdering two people, but his face indicated otherwise.

  “Norman, I think it’s best if Helen goes home,” Sam said. “We have a taxi waiting for us. Perhaps the driver will take her and come back for us.”

  Norman gazed at Helen as if he had never seen her before. “I, uh, I think. . . maybe you . . . uh, I don’t . . .”

  Helen straightened her back and broke in before Norman was able to form any words that made sense. “I have my car. There’s no need for a taxi.”

  “I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive,” Henry said. “You should let White Cloud take you home.”

  Helen blew her nose and sniffed. “An Indian? No way. I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”

  Sam was not surprised by the woman’s intolerance and didn’t bother to try to change Helen’s mind. Many of the older generation were set in their ways and still considered Native Americans less than human. Maybe they watched too many Westerns where the bad guys were often tribes of Indians out to scalp the newcomers who were stealing their land. Whatever the reason, Sam thought it best to let the comment slide.

  Helen seemed reluctant to leave. She remained at her desk, twisting the straps of her purse around her fingers. “I’ll be fine. I just need a few minutes.” Her accusing eyes washed over Sam and Henry as if they were the cause of all her problems. “There’s no need for you to hang around.”

  “I have a few more things to discuss with Norman,” Sam said.

  The realtor gave no indication he’d heard. He remained frozen in the hall, staring out the entrance door with unseeing eyes.

  Helen glanced at her boss. “Maybe now isn’t a good time.”

  “Maybe it is.” Sam turned her attention to Norman. “Could we step back into your office?”

  Norman continued to stare into the gloomy parking lot. He didn’t look at her. “I . . . uh . . . don’t think now . . .”

  “It has to be now,” Sam insisted. She took his arm and turned him toward the office door.

  Henry couldn’t decide whether to follow Sam or to stay and try to comfort Helen until Sam threw a look over her shoulder and jerked her head for him to follow. He struggled to his feet, gave Helen a smile, and hobbled after Sam.

  Norman stood in the center of his office and glanced around as if he didn’t know what he was doing there. Sam guided him to the chair behind his desk and pulled it out so he could sit. He slumped, staring at his desktop.

  “What was in the envelope?” Sam asked.

  “What? Oh, that. Nothing . . . just a note about some, uh, things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Uh . . . nothing important.”

  “Helen seemed to think it was important.”

  “Helen’s upset.”

  Sam persisted. “So what exactly did Betty find so important she left you a note?”

  “Just, uh, a . . . a list of repairs we should have done.” The last words tumbled out of Norman’s mouth as if he were relieved to have come up with something to appease Sam.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Betty was like that. She made lists all the time.”

  “Why was it so important you get it right away?”

  Norman picked up a pen and began doodling on a legal pad. “Don’t know. Could be Helen exaggerated a bit.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sam stared at Norman but he didn’t make eye contact.

  When Henry hobbled in, Norman jerked upright and seemed to pull himself together. “Would you like some coffee?” He reached for an empty mug on the corner of his desk. “I think I would.”

  Sam shook her head and Henry said, “No, thanks.”

  Norman popped up and rushed to the door as if he were being chased by a herd of rampaging elephants. He almost knocked Henry over in his haste. “I’ll be right back.”

  As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Sam hurried around the desk and began opening drawers. Without pausing in her search for the envelope from Betty, she told Henry to shut the door and warn her if he heard Norman returning.

  Inside the top drawer were pens, unsharpened pencils, and new Post-it notepads with rubber bands and paper clips embedded in the dust at the bottom. The top side drawer was filled with blank real estate agreements. Opening the center drawer revealed more of the same, while two bottles of Johnnie Walker Double Black blended scotch whiskey—one nearly empty, the other not yet opened—filled the bottom drawer.

  Sam slammed the last drawer shut and lifted her head. “It’s not here.”

  “He probably took it with him.” Henry glanced into the hall. “It’s taking an awfully long time for him to get that coffee.”

  Sam scurried back to her chair and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Maybe he had to make it.”

  “I saw half a pot on the shelf behind Helen’s desk,” Henry said.

  Realization came over her like the sunrise after a snowstorm. “You don’t think . . .” She ran into the hall then forced herself to slow down. No need to scare the crap out of Helen by bursting into the reception area. But she needn’t have bothered to slow. The space was empty. Both Helen and Norman were gone. “Shit.”

  Henry joined her, scanned the area and leaned against the wall. “Looks like we’re too late.”

  “Why the hell would they run away like that?” Sam ran her fingers through her hair while turning in a circle to take in every corner.

  “There’s something in that envelope they don’t want to talk about.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. But what is it?”

  Henry shrugged. “I doubt it’s a confession.”

  “Much as I was hoping it would be, I think you’re right. I think she knew who killed Mary Margaret. And I think Helen does too.”

  “And whoever it is, they don’t want us to know.” Henry wished he could pace but instead he tapped his cane on the floor, feeling like an old man.

  Sam pulled her phone out and pulled up her notes. She didn’t want to press Norman any further, but she had Helen’s address along with her phone number. There was something the woman was holding back and Sam was determined to find out what it was.

  “Why don’t you stay here in case Norman comes back? I’ll have White Cloud take me to Helen’s place.

  “Not gonna happen,” Henry said. The buzzing had started, low but insistent. He might not know what caused it, but he wasn’t about to let Sam out of his sight. “I’m coming with you.”

  Sam knew better than to argue when Henry had that tone in his voice. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  As they locked the door to the office, White Cloud pulled the taxi to the front of the building. Sam slid in the back seat while Henry sank into the passenger side.

  The taxi driver pulled away as soon as they were inside, not waiting for them to fasten their seat belts.

  “Your friends are back,” White Cloud said.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The taxi sped out of the parking lot, turned right, then left onto a one-way street. White Cloud gripped the wheel and concentrated on driving while Henry twisted around to peer at Sam. “Do you have the .44 with you?”

  “Yeah. I have your .38 too.”

  “You brought both guns?”

  Sam’s face did a shrug. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “So they either made a lucky guess about where we were or they tracked us with your .44.”

  “Yeah.” Sam slumped against the rear seat. “What can we do about it now? I’m not going to pitch my gun in the river.”

  “Give it to me,” Henry said. He wiggled his fingers at her.

  “Why? You’re not going to toss it out the window, are you?”

  “No.” Henry smiled and turned to White Cloud. “They seem to be hanging back. I can’t see them.”

  “They are following at a distance. I can feel them
.”

  “So can I.” The buzzing in Henry’s head remained constant—neither easing nor growing. But it persisted at a worrisome level. Henry hoped Sam did not pick up on the glance the Native American shot his way.

  She shifted to see out the rear window. “What are you two talking about? I don’t see them.”

  White Cloud turned his attention back to the road, leaving Henry to come up with an answer. “It’s only logical they’re staying out of sight. They don’t want to tip their hand. They’ve already messed up three times.”

  Sam addressed White Cloud. “Are they in the van or the Charger?”

  “Neither. They are in a maroon Ford pickup truck.”

  “Another car? Jesus, do they have an unlimited supply?”

  The taxi driver shrugged. “It would seem so.”

  “How did you spot them?”

  “They slowed down when they drove past the real estate office. I recognized them from the other night.”

  “Well, hell.” Sam fumbled the Smith & Wesson from the holster at her waist and stared at the gun. She double-checked that the safety was on before she handed it to Henry. Much as she didn’t want to be without her favorite weapon, she couldn’t justify taking the chance it was being used to track them. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I have an idea,” Henry said. “Did you tell that guy from Stay Andrew that we’re leaving the apartment?”

  “I haven’t had time.”

  “Good. Then we head to the apartment, the code should be good to allow me to enter. You can drop me off and I’ll hide the gun in the unit. If they’re tracking it, they’ll think we’re spending the day in the apartment.”

  “That could work.” Sam gazed out the window. “You stay at the apartment while I go to talk to Helen.”

  “No, that’s not going to work. You shouldn’t go by yourself.”

  “I’ll be with White Cloud.”

  The taxi stopped at a red light and the Native American glanced at Henry. “You do not trust my skill?”

  “I do. But it’s not your job. It’s mine.”

  “I can change your job description anytime I want,” Sam said. “And until your ankle is healed, bodyguard is not included.”