“All right.” She smiled back. “Thank you, Bixby.”
Huh. I didn’t think she knew my name. I nodded and started to back out the door then saw my opening. That wasn’t a stock image on her screen; that was a personal photo. “What a beautiful cat.” I took a half step forward like I couldn’t take my eyes off the really ordinary looking orange cat in the picture. “Is he yours?”
Bullseye. She turned to the screen, beaming. “Why, yes. That’s Sir Reginald.”
I crossed the tiny room like I was drawn to the image. I mentioned having a cat when I was young—actually it was my sister’s, I hated the thing—asked a few inane questions, and let her babble on about the wonders of the stupid cat while I scoped out her workspace and made some mental notes. There were a few more pictures of the cat in frames sitting on her desk. No husband, no kids. That could come in handy later on. I waited until she started to run out of breath.
“Does he get angry when you’re late getting home?” I asked. “My Mickey used to sulk if he didn’t get his dinner right on time.”
“Oh, I’m hardly ever late. I leave here at seven o’clock every night, like clockwork. I can’t keep Reggie waiting.”
I waited a week, just to be safe. Sure enough, crazy cat lady left every night at seven to go home to Sir Reginald. The last of the kitchen crew left about eight, after cleanup. I slipped into the darkened kitchen at nine, moving by the glow from the parking lot lights and the almost full moon. I tested the door to Hendricks’ office. As expected, it was locked, but a piece of cake to pick. It was darker in there so I got out my penlight. She’d turned off her computer so I powered it up and waited for the password prompt. This should be easy.
First I tried SirReginald. Nope.
How about just Reginald? Invalid.
Hmm. Maybe all lower case. No. Stupid. I typed in Reggie.
Bingo.
I started flipping through the list, focusing on the non-Medicare patients. Whoa, some of them were taking enough meds to choke a horse. And most of them were damned expensive. I’d hate to have to pay those bills. Of course, Medicare covered some drugs even for the full pays but that still was a lot of money down the drain. Which got me thinking…there was a hell of a lot of money being spent here just to keep some old fogies alive well past their time. Money someone else was waiting in line for—if the doctors and the home didn’t get it all first. Maybe someone who was getting a little impatient. Someone who might like a little help sending Great-Aunt Tilly to her final reward. And be willing to pay for it.
I started working it out in my head. Like I said before, I didn’t take this job looking to kill anyone. But if the price was right…Wouldn’t be hard. Hell, you could smother one of these old biddies—did I mention there were way more women than men?—with a pillow when they were sleeping. And you weren’t really taking a lot from them. They were pretty much done anyway. I heard stories around about ones that cried all the time because they wanted to die. But I wasn’t doing any mercy killings. I was looking for a score.
The trick was not getting caught.
There were a lot of pieces to pull together. I needed an old girl with money and an impatient heir who didn’t care how he got it. Then I’d find out what drugs she was on and which ones would be the easiest to give a lethal dose of without a lot of obvious symptoms. Easy enough to Google. Then I’d boost some from the pharmacy, and start adding a little extra to her food every day. Have to do it gradual enough so there wouldn’t be some big reaction, but quick enough that her doctor wouldn’t start ordering tests. Then bingo, she’s dead and everyone’s all “well, it was time” and “now she’s at rest.” And even if the doctor wants to double check or the coroner orders an autopsy, they’re just going to find the drugs that were supposed to be there. Nothing suspicious here, folks.
I started spending my daytime off hours in the “Hospitality Room.” It was this big room with couches and recliners, and tables with regular chairs to sit around. There were two TV’s, one at each end, supposedly so the sound from one wouldn’t bother the people watching the other. Except there was always someone who forgot their hearing aid and had the set cranked up to full volume until someone complained and a staff person turned it down. There was a snack bar with coffee and tea and such. The walls were this soft green color with pretty pictures of flowers and trees. You could almost forget you were in a nursing home except for the flat industrial carpet—for wheelchairs to roll on—and the railings all around the walls.
Most of the residents who weren’t bedridden spent some of their day in there, doing activities or just looking for company. That worked for me. The bedridden ones were probably far enough along that whoever was waiting for their money wouldn’t need my help.
I took turns sitting with the ladies, chatting them up, seeing what I could find out. This was another reason the women worked better for me. The men always wanted to talk about old war stories, sports, or politics. The women liked to talk about their families, even if it was just to complain they never visited. After a couple weeks, I had three likely candidates: Gertrude, Edith, and Margaret. All had money, just one or two heirs, and were taking meds I could work with. Time to meet the family.
Gertrude’s heir was her only son, Henry. He visited once a month and stayed one hour. Obligation visit. Gert was a sour old thing, tall and rail thin with a stiffly sprayed hairstyle several decades old. She spent most of her time complaining that Henry didn’t come more often and bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t become a doctor like she wanted but followed her ex-husband (the skirt-chasing drunk) into his computer business. Henry had never married, which was somehow her ex’s fault, and never gave her the grandchildren she always wanted.
At the end of his next visit, I managed a conversation by the simple trick of lifting one of his gloves from his coat pocket and pretending he dropped it.
“You’re Miss Gertrude’s son, Henry, aren’t you?”
He gave me a suspicious stare.
“I’m Al Bixby. I work here…in the kitchen. I like to talk with the ladies in my free time.”
“Good grief, why?”
I gave a little snort of laughter. “Well, yes, some of them can be a bit…difficult?”
“That’s one way to put it.” He started to pull on the glove.
“And yet you’re here faithfully, every month.” I offered a smile I hoped was somewhere between sympathetic and conspiratorial. “Dutiful heir?”
If he was offended, he didn’t show it. “Hardly. Just fulfilling a promise I made to my dad. He set up a trust fund before he died to pay for this place. Whatever’s left when she dies goes to her church.”
Damn. I wouldn’t have minded helping the world be rid of Gertrude. The son said something else I didn’t catch. My mind had already moved on to Edith.
Edith the weeper. Not about her granddaughter, she was wonderful. Came every week even though it was over an hour’s drive. But she missed her Ernie…gone to his reward three years ago and all Miss Edith wanted was to join him. Well, I wasn’t above helping her out, if the granddaughter was interested.
But it turned out to be Margaret.
Margaret was actually my favorite of the three. She was friendly, cheerful, and still had all her marbles. Kept in shape, too, as much as anyone can on a walker. Spry old girl. She had a great-niece, Daisy, who came to see her a couple times a day, and Daisy’s husband, George, who showed up on Sunday afternoon every other week.
This was his week.
It wasn’t hard to lure him away. I waited till he wandered over to the coffee machine. Margaret and Daisy, sitting at one of the tables, were chatting away and didn’t seem to notice his absence.
“Couldn’t take the hen talk, eh?”
He looked at me and ran his hand over his face. “For this I’m missing the game.”
“That sucks.” I stuck out my hand. “Al Bixby.”
He took it. “George Marsh.”
“I’d offer you a beer, George, but it’
s not allowed on the premises. I know, I work in the kitchen.”
“That’s okay, this will do.” He gestured with the paper coffee cup.
“Come on, let’s let the ladies gab.” I steered him to an empty table in the corner. It wasn’t difficult. Since I had the time, I started out with sports talk and the game he was missing. Then we got into business and how tough things were these days. Me working in some nursing home kitchen. Him struggling to keep his furniture business afloat.
“But Miss Margaret has money. I mean…I’m sorry, but she’s in the east wing and Medicare doesn’t pay for those rooms so I thought…”
His scowl was an ugly thing. “She has money. But she’s not giving any of it to me. Not while she’s still on this side of the grave.”
Dear Lord, could he have made it any easier? “Oh, so you’re in line to inherit? Well, that’s something.”
“Maybe. If I can keep the business going long enough.”
I took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. This was it. Now or never. If I was reading him wrong, he might call the cops and that would be the end of this game real quick.
“What if you could hurry her along?”
He stared at me through narrowed eyes and I could hear him turning the words over in his mind.
“What do you mean?”
No, I hadn’t read him wrong.
“Well, at her age, it’s just a matter of time anyway. Hell, half the women in this place will come right out and tell you they’re ready to go. It’s just a matter of helping them along.”
“And you help them along?”
I shook my head. “No. But I could.”
“How?”
Another head shake. “Better you don’t know. But I can tell you it won’t be violent,” just in case he’s the squeamish type, “and it will take a couple weeks, maybe three, to avoid suspicion.”
He took a swallow of coffee and looked across the room where his wife and her great-aunt were talking and laughing. Their laughter seemed to make the decision for him.
“How much?”
I like a man who gets right down to business.
“Forty percent. Forty percent of whatever you get. I’ll even be generous and make that after funeral and legal expenses and taxes. Forty percent of the net inheritance.”
“Bullshit. Ten.”
I just stared at him.
“All right, twenty. But no higher.”
Since twenty percent was the figure I was really looking for, I let the silence drag out another minute and nodded. “Okay. Twenty.” Let him think he chewed me down, make him happy. “But you can’t change your routine. Your wife still has to come every day like she’s been doing, and you have to come visit on your usual Sunday.”
He scowled and glanced at the ladies. I guess he was hoping he wouldn’t have to face Miss Margaret again, but he sucked it up. “Yeah, sure, no problem.”
We got up and I walked him back to their table.
“Alvin. I didn’t know you were here. Daisy, you know Alvin.” Miss Margaret is the only one who calls me by my given name. Insisted I tell her what it was. To be honest, I kind of like it. She flashed a bright smile and Daisy gave me a friendly nod. Part of me wishes it hadn’t been Margaret. Oh, I wasn’t backing out. Not on that kind of money. But I would miss her. A hell of a lot more than I would have missed Gertrude.
“Sit with us, Alvin.” Margaret gestured to the chair beside her.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s time for me to get back to work.” I shook hands with George, sealing the deal. “Nice talking with you, Mr. Marsh.”
That night, I was back in Mrs. Hendricks’ office, taking a closer look at Margaret’s medications, and googling all the medical websites. I didn’t understand a lot of what I was reading but most of the time there was a link to another site that would spell it out for me. I finally figured out that my best bet was to go with hyperkalemia, which is basically too much potassium in the blood. There were a couple meds on her list that would boost her potassium levels if she got too much of them, and the symptoms wouldn’t be too obvious. She already had a heart condition so, with any luck at all, it should kick her into cardiac arrest. And that would be enough since the old girl conveniently had a Do Not Resuscitate order on file.
Obtaining what I needed was easy. The lock on the pharmacy was better than the dietician’s office but still not much of a challenge. I’d been picking locks way too long. None of what I needed was high security stuff like the opioids, but I still only took enough for a couple days. Didn’t want to set off any red flags.
The other thing I’d been doing the last couple weeks was studying the routine for setting up the meal trays. I knew who prepared which trays and when they were picked up and taken to the rooms. And I’d started helping out, moving the trays onto the insulated wheeled carts. Everyone was so grateful. “Why, thank you, Al.” “It’s good of you to help, Al.” That was my window.
Breakfast, the first day. I had Margaret’s daily dose, or overdose, tucked up my sleeve, all ground up in a little vial I swiped from the blood lab. I worked my way down to her tray. Oatmeal. Damn, the sight of it made this almost feel like a mercy killing after all.
Then it was done. The first dose. The beginning of the end for Miss Margaret.
Every day I followed the same routine. Did my prep work in the kitchen, helped with the trays, and visited with the ladies during my off hours. At the end of the first week, Edith the weeper got her wish and went to join her Ernie. It was a shame I hadn’t been able to hit up her granddaughter first. Might have gotten an easy job out of it.
Sour old Gertrude took exception to something I said and started giving me the cold shoulder so I was spending more time with Margaret, watching for symptoms. There should be some weakness, numbness, muscle pain, something by now. I’d figured out that she wasn’t the complaining type, which was good for me, so I made a point of asking how she was feeling and if anything was bothering her. She told me I was sweet to be concerned but she was just fine.
After the second week, George made his scheduled appearance. I was helping one of the residents with the TV, trying to find the war movie he was certain was on. He finally settled for college basketball. George sat with Daisy and Margaret for a while, but when he saw I was done with the TV he headed for the coffee machine, his stare telling me to meet him there.
He didn’t waste time on pleasantries.
“What’s going on?”
I knew what he meant but played dumb. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, what the hell is going on? We had a deal. She ain’t dead. She ain’t even sick.”
“Calm down. I told you it could take three weeks. I have to go slow. So nobody gets suspicious.” I reached for the coffee pot to pour us both a cup but he grabbed my wrist.
“I haven’t got time. I’ve made some promises, based on that money coming. To the kind of people you don’t break promises to.”
Not good. And he was right, dear old Margaret wasn’t showing any ill effects from the increased drugs. I eased my wrist out of his grasp, nodding my understanding.
“Okay, I’ll speed up the timeline. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“You’d better. If this thing doesn’t happen, I ain’t taking the hit alone.”
The next day I doubled the amount of medication in Margaret’s food. I had to start seeing some results and soon. I spent most of my free time sitting with her, talking, playing cards, watching for symptoms. It’s funny, I think we would have become friends if I hadn’t been, you know, trying to kill her.
Another week went by. I was dreading Sunday. It wasn’t George’s week but I half-expected him to show up. To point out that his wife’s great-aunt was still very much among the living. I thought about hiding out in the kitchen, but that would be a little obvious. When I got to the hospitality room, George wasn’t there. Neither was Daisy.
Neither was Margaret.
I worked my way down the hall to the nu
rsing station and made my inquiry.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”
Alleluia! All those drugs had finally kicked in. And about time. Well, rest in peace, Margaret, old girl.
“Her niece passed away. Margaret’s helping with the arrangements.”
I stood there staring, trying to process her words. “What?”
She shook her head. “I mean her great-niece. I’m sure you met her. She came to visit every day. Daisy Marsh.”
“But…what happened? I didn’t even know she was sick.”
“Cardiac arrest. From what I heard, it was quite unexpected, although she was overweight and that’s never healthy.”
I thanked her and wandered back down the hall, trying to get my head around it.
Well, okay. Okay. This still works. Daisy’s dead, so George is the sole heir. Those drugs have got to kick in on Margaret any time now. Maybe the shock of losing Daisy will get things moving in the right direction.
Margaret was gone four days. I worried that her body would have a chance to fight back, to overcome the effects of the extra meds. I needed her to get back here and eat the food I prepared for her. I needed her to get sick and show George some symptoms to keep him off my back. Hell, I needed her to drop dead like she was supposed to.
On Thursday, she was sitting in the hospitality room in her usual spot. She looked a little pale and tired. Good sign. One of the nurses was talking to her—offering condolences, I imagined—so I waited until she was alone then went over.
“Miss Margaret, may I sit with you?”
Her smile was not quite as bright as usual but every bit as warm. “Alvin. I’ve been hoping I’d see you today.” She gestured toward the chair next to hers.
“I heard about Daisy,” I said as I sat down. “I’m so sorry.”
Her lips trembled. “Thank you. It was quite a shock. I’m going to miss her so much.”
“I heard it was her heart. Had she been ill?”
“No. Not at all. Although she wasn’t very fit. She hated exercise and she loved to eat. She even liked the food here.”
The Best Laid Plans Page 7