Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 56, No. 5, May 2011

Death in Rehab by B. K. Stevens

“I’m not so sure about this job,” he said. “It sounds dangerous. You’ll be surrounded by addicts.”

“By addicts committed to overcoming their dependencies.” She started to pour herself a third cup of coffee, paused, and decided she didn’t need it. “That’s not dangerous. That’s inspirational.”

“Maybe. But they’re still addicts, and addicts do dangerous things. Did you read the local news this morning?” He found the right page and pointed to a headline. “ ‘Gambling Addict Embezzles Millions, Disappears’ — probably in Vegas by now, the paper says. Or this story — ‘Small-Time Drug Dealer Killed Execution Style’ — probably because he stole from his bosses, the paper says. Or this one — ‘Shooter Flies into Drunken Rage, Wounds Two’ — the police haven’t caught that one, either.”

She sighed. “In the first place, I don’t think people who fly into drunken rages are necessarily alcoholics, and I’m sure not all alcoholics fly into drunken rages. In the second place, there won’t be any alcoholics at the center — no drug addicts, either, much less any drug dealers. It’s not that sort of rehab center. The temporary agency said no one there has substance abuse problems.”

“Really? What sorts of addictions do these people have?”

“The agency didn’t say.” She carried her dishes to the sink. “But I got the impression the addictions are fairly mild. Anyway, I probably won’t have much contact with clients — I’ll be tucked away in an office, typing and filing. I’ll be perfectly safe, Sam. So, you’re meeting with the Hartwells today? What sort of lawn ornament do they want?”

“They’re still arguing. She wants a birdbath; he wants a family crest. So I’ll have to use my negotiating skills, steer them toward a compromise.” He put the newspaper down. “Not exactly what I had in mind when I went to art school, Leah.”

“I know.” She walked back to the table and put a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m sorry no one bought any of your sculptures at the gallery show last week. Well, next time for sure. Want me to take homework duty tonight, so you can focus on your design?”

“That’d be nice. Last night, Sarah spent half an hour kvetching about her religious school assignment; I tried to explain it but didn’t have much luck. And it does seem unreasonable to expect kids to do religious school homework every night.”

“It’s the counting of the omer,” she said, looking through her purse. “Every night is part of the point. Now, I’ve got my keys, I’ve got my pencil — what am I forgetting?”

“Your notebook.” He handed it to her. “As usual.”

Tuesday, April 26, 1:05 p.m.

Lunchtime — my first chance to take notes. It’s been a surprising morning. Some of my observations are bound to provide useful data for the book.

When I arrived, I was struck by how beautiful this place is. It looks like a resort, not a rehab center: An immense lobby with a marble floor, a courtyard with a sparkling fountain, broad corridors, walls lined with cheerful watercolors, a stunning variety of vibrant flowering plants everywhere. The director ushered me into his elegantly furnished office and insisted I call him Fred.

“We all use first names here,” he said. “Guests, staff, visitors, everybody. It helps guests feel special. And it reinforces the idea that everything that goes on at the center is confidential, that the life guests live here is separate from the lives they live outside.”

What happens in rehab stays in rehab, I thought, noting that he referred to the people who come here for treatment as “guests,” not “patients” or “clients.” “The name of the center reinforces that idea, too,” I said.

He beamed. “Exactly. The Cocoon Center — a safe place for people to change and grow, to transform themselves into something beautiful. Our six-step program makes that possible.”

“A six-step program? Don’t most rehab centers have twelve-step programs?”

“We did some editing.” He shrugged. “Our guests like fast results. We dropped the Higher Power stuff; some guests find that a stretch. And listing people one has harmed, making amends — that damages self-esteem. Our program is more positive and forward-looking.” He handed me a slim pamphlet and a thick folder. “The pamphlet explains how it works. And skim through those files on the guests in your therapy group.”

“My therapy group?” I said, confused. “Secretaries participate in therapy groups?”

“Oh, you’re not here as a temporary secretary. Didn’t the agency explain? You’re here as a temporary therapist. You have a master’s in communication, right?”

A PhD, actually — but I’ve learned to leave that off my resumé, along with any references to my years as a professor. Most places don’t like hiring secretaries who seem overqualified. “But I don’t have much background in psychology,” I said. “And I’ve never worked as a therapist.”

“You’ll do fine. It’s all about helping people open up — your background’s perfect.” His face grew somber. “And it’s an emergency situation. I had to fire a therapist yesterday. I caught him smuggling contraband to a guest.”

“Drugs?” I said, apprehension growing. “Alcohol?”

“Oh, no. Our guests have no interest in drugs. And they’re all welcome to enjoy cocktails in the lobby at five and wine with dinner, so alcohol isn’t an issue. Still, there are some things some guests shouldn’t have. This particular guest is addicted to video games and had been on the wagon for two weeks — until his therapist slipped him a portable PlayStation. It’s a heartbreaking setback.”

I hid a smile. An addiction to video games sounded harmless enough. But if it grew into an obsession that interfered with work or family — yes, I supposed it might require treatment. “It must be upsetting to have one of your own staff members break one of your rules.”

“It’s a terrible betrayal of trust,” Fred agreed. “And trust is central to our work. We trust our guests, too. Unlike most centers, we don’t search guests’ luggage when they arrive: We just have a friendly chat about what they should and shouldn’t have, and they voluntarily surrender anything that seems problematic. But this incident left me no choice. Last night, for the first time in the center’s history, I conducted a search of guests’ rooms. Not an intrusive one — just a quick look to see if anyone else had bribed that therapist to smuggle things in. I did have to confiscate some items; I’m sure some guests are upset. Give them a chance to talk about that during your session this morning.”

“This morning?” I looked at the folder in dismay. “I’m not sure I can be ready.”

He glanced at his watch. “You have nearly an hour. All the guests in your morning group have been at the center less than a week — one is arriving today, in fact. After one week, guests are reassigned to their permanent groups; we like to keep people with similar addictions together. But this morning you’ll have a variety.”

“And this afternoon?” I asked, afraid I knew what the answer would be.

“You’ll have two other groups. I’ll put those files together for you.” He stood and smiled. “I have complete confidence in you, Leah. I’ll come back at ten and show you to the Caterpillar Room.”

Seizing the folder, I read frantically, trying to absorb as much information I could. Three minutes before ten, Fred returned to hurry me to a room that felt both spacious and cozy: walls painted a soothing light green, a dark green couch with two bright red throw pillows, pastel print armchairs, a mellow oak coffee table and matching end tables. At the back of the room I spotted a refrigerator, a microwave, and a bookcase stocked with paperbacks. All the comforts of home, I thought — if you come from a very nice home.

“This room is reserved for our first-week guests,” Fred told me. “A place for both working and relaxing while they adjust to the center’s routine. Your group members will be returning from their Independent Meditation Hour soon. As for our newest guest, he’s still checking in — I’ll bring him here in ten minutes or so. Enjoy your first session.”

Before I could ask a single question, he was gone. I’m not qualified, I thought. I’ll say something wrong, and someone will go into hysterics or commit suicide.

But I had no time to indulge in such fears. A slightly chubby, slowly balding man in his early forties started to walk into the room, saw me, and froze, eyes wide with confusion.

No way to avoid it — I had to try to act professional. “Hello,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m Leah.”

His eyes brightened, and he gave me a shy, warm smile. “What’s a Hebrew name meaning ‘weary?’ ” he said.

So this must be Felix. I remembered the description from his file: “Jeopardy! addict — obsessed with trivia, speaks only in the form of questions.” He’d been a Jeopardy! grand champion about a decade ago, winning enough to start a highly profitable online investment company that he ran from his mother’s basement. Quite a success story — except that his glory days had left him incapable of interacting with others in normal ways. “It’s nice to meet you, Felix,” I said. “Would you like to have a seat?”

But he couldn’t respond to questions, only to statements that let him reply with a question of his own. He smiled silently, walked to the refrigerator, took out a bright blue thermos labeled “Felix,” and chose a chair near the back of the room.

The other group members arrived together: a honey-haired woman of twenty or so, striking in a white pencil skirt and a silky red top; a lean, muscular man of about fifty, wearing sweatpants and a sleeveless orange tank top; and a gaunt woman in her thirties, dressed in a shapeless black skirt and a gray sweater worn thin at the elbows. They all took thermoses from the refrigerator and found seats. The gaunt woman immediately reached into the oversized purse slung over her shoulder, pulled out an embroidery hoop, and hunched over it, stitching furiously. The others stared at me.

I sat down and cleared my throat. “I’m delighted to be here,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound as insincere as I felt. “I’m Leah, your new group leader — your temporary new group leader. I understand you had a rather upsetting experience yesterday—”

“ ‘Rather upsetting,’ hell,” the lean, muscular man cut in. “It was damn upsetting. Fred had no right to search our rooms. The brochure guaranteed our privacy would be strictly respected. I wouldn’t have signed up here otherwise.”

“Yes, that’s the only reason I came to the center,” the stylish young woman said, “because it promised our privacy would be guarded stringently.”

Quickly, I matched the guests with their profiles. The lean, muscular man was Brian — wealthy entrepreneur, overweight since childhood, lost over eighty pounds in just six months, now so obsessed with diet and exercise that his doctor feared he’d endanger his health if his body fat percentage sank any lower. And the young woman had to be Courtney, a chronic plagiarist on final probation with her college, facing expulsion unless rehab made her change her ways.

“Damn it, Courtney,” Brian said, “don’t just repeat what I said. You do stuff like that all the time. Don’t you have any ideas of your own?”

“I didn’t simply reiterate your statement,” Courtney protested. “I used different words, in a different order. And I have plenty of thoughts that originate with me.”

“Is that so?” Brian said. “Then I guess it’s just a coincidence that during yesterday’s session, the so-called reflections you shared matched up almost word for word with what Martha had written in her Recovery Journal. I bet you’d gone into her room the night before, snuck a look at her journal—”

“Sneaked a look,” the gaunt woman said. “No matter what anyone thinks, sneak is not an irregular verb — never has been, never will be. Get used to it.”

So this must be Martha, the compulsive proofreader. I’d try to draw her into the discussion in a more constructive way. “Martha, how did you feel about the search?”

She looked up from her embroidery — a sampler, featuring cross-stitched words and an eagle soaring past a beautiful mountain. “I resented it,” she said. “Fred confiscated my Fowler’s English Usage.”

“I can see why,” Brian said. “You shouldn’t dwell on that stuff so much.”

“I don’t dwell on it,” she shot back. “I just like to browse through it for an hour or so before bedtime. It helps me relax.”

I tried to remember more details from her file. “As I recall, you used to be a copy editor — is that right?”

Savagely, she thrust her needle through the taut circle of linen. “I’m still a copy editor,” she said, “and a tutor. I do freelance work now.”

“She used to work for a publisher,” Brian put in, “but she was fired last year. She got on her co-workers’ nerves by correcting their grammar at staff meetings. I understand how they felt. It’s not much fun when someone keeps pointing out your mistakes.”

“Yes, their reaction is comprehensible,” Courtney said. “Nobody enjoys having their grammar corrected.”

Martha glared at her. “Nobody enjoys having his or her grammar corrected. ‘Nobody’ is singular. Good God! Don’t you know anything? And for your information, some people do enjoy being corrected. Some people are eager to learn, to improve themselves.” She let her needle rest a moment and fingered her bracelet — a clumsy, heavy-looking circlet composed of large red beads.

So far, the session was not going well. Maybe I should ask Courtney a question, to try to force her into saying something that was truly her own. “How are you enjoying your first week at the center, Courtney? Do you feel you’re making progress?”

She looked around uncertainly, then shrugged. “It’s all right. I mean, the massages are nice, the yoga’s okay, and I like the hot tub. As for progress — who cares? I’m only here because my parents talked the dean into giving me another chance.”

“Misplaced limiting modifier,” Martha muttered, but nobody paid much attention.

“Courtney plagiarized eight times,” Brian said helpfully.

Courtney smiled — a quick, secretive smile. “I got caught eight times. So the dean said he wouldn’t let me back unless I went to rehab. Or Daddy could’ve given the college another building, I guess. But rehab’s cheaper.”

“Not much cheaper,” Brian said. “They really fleece you at this place.”

“Unstated antecedent,” Martha said, and went back to stitching.

Courtney had gotten started now, and she wasn’t stopping. “I don’t see why my parents won’t just let me drop out. I mean, college is so stupid. You’ve gotta spend hours writing all these dumb essays. My parents just want me to go so I can get the right kind of job for a few years and then marry the right kind of man and go to the right kind of parties. But I don’t want that. I mean, ever since I was a kid, my mother’s been dragging me to garden shows, and horse shows, and charity luncheons, and it’s all so boring. I don’t wanna waste my whole life doing that stuff.”

“What do you want to do, Courtney?” I asked.

She sat forward eagerly. “I wanna be a personal assistant. I wanna go to Hollywood or New York, meet somebody famous, and, like, assist her. I could help her shop for shoes and purses, and drive her home from parties when she gets drunk, and bail her out, and stuff. I’d be perfect for that. I mean, I’m really pretty and really smart, and I’ve got great taste and a great personality. I don’t see what else anyone could want.”

“What is an interesting vocabulary?” Felix asked. He mumbled it; I don’t think Courtney heard.

“Well, lotsa luck, kid,” Brian said. “Your parents won’t give you one penny for a harebrained scheme like that. And you don’t have money of your own, right?”

“I will,” Courtney said, “as soon as I turn twenty-five and come into my trust. But that’s so old — who’d want a personal assistant who’s practically middle-aged? And who’d care if an assistant can write a dumb essay?”

The teacher in me couldn’t let that go unchallenged. “College can be valuable in ways you haven’t considered,” I said. “Even if you don’t think the skills and knowledge you’re acquiring are relevant to your career choice, you’re encountering ideas that can deepen your understanding of the world. And if you do your work honestly and independently, you’ll develop work habits and discipline that can help you succeed in any field you enter.”

She looked at me sourly. “Work habits and discipline. Oh, wow. Now you’ve got me excited.”

Brian looked ready to hurl back an insult, but the door opened, and Fred walked in, accompanied by a tall, fit, thirtyish man with a mass of curly blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a half-shy, half-flirtatious grin. I think we all gasped at once.

“Hello, everybody,” Fred said. “This is Roland. He arrived today, and he’s joining your group. I have to get going, so Leah can handle the introductions.”

I stumbled through them. Fred should have warned me, I thought. Both of my daughters have crushes on Roland. He’d first won fame as a stand-up comedian, a favorite on late-night talk shows. My daughters fell in love with him when he landed a role on a situation comedy, playing the easygoing coach of a hapless girls’ soccer team. And now he was set to star in his first movie, a romantic comedy pairing him with one of the most famous young actresses in Hollywood.

But during the last few years, most of his publicity had come from his off-screen antics — rowdy behavior at restaurants, shouting matches with directors, a reputation for missing rehearsals, bounced checks, disputes with the IRS, arrests for reckless driving. I wondered which of those offenses had brought him here.

“It’s great to meet all of you,” he said when I’d finished the introductions. He grinned — an amazing grin, one that seemed to prove, all by itself, that he was smart, funny, friendly, thoroughly nice. “I’d like to say I’m glad to be here, but I bet you wouldn’t believe me.”

It wasn’t funny, but we all laughed. Even Martha looked starry-eyed. “Why are you here, Mr. — but no.” She remembered the first-names-only rule just in time. “Why are you here, Roland?”

He smiled at her, and her jaw went slack. How many years had it been since any man had smiled at Martha that way? “Little matter of a disagreement with a judge, Martha,” he said. “I’d been doing maybe seventy — who knew it was a school zone? — and this fat, greasy cop wouldn’t listen to reason. Then the court date slipped my mind. I’ve got lots of appointments — it’s hard to keep track of them all.”

“It must be difficult to remember everything,” Courtney said eagerly, “when you have such a busy schedule.”

He rewarded her with a smile. Probably, celebrities don’t mind when someone echoes what they say; probably, they’re used to it. “Damn straight,” he said. “But the judge started spouting all this garbage about contempt. So my attorney and my shrink and some other folks got involved, and the judge agreed to suspend the sentence if I went into rehab. Not some fancy celebrity rehab center, she said — a real rehab center, far away from Hollywood. So my agent checked into it and came up with this place.” He looked around the room and shrugged. “Not too bad.”

“The judge must’ve figured you have an addiction, right?” Brian said. “To what?”

Roland sighed; his shoulders slumped; his grin drooped. “I’m addicted to failure, Brian. I have a crippling fear of success. Every time my career seems ready to take off — like with the movie I’m doing — I get scared, and I screw up somehow, just to derail things. I can’t stand the thought of being too rich and famous, I guess; my shrink says deep down, I’m terrified that it’d turn me into a phony. But I have to get a handle on this fear; I’m determined to do it; with your help, I can do it.”

He smiled again — a brave, humble smile, aimed at all of us. For someone with a crippling fear of success, I thought, he’s done pretty well — a popular comedian, a television star. But I’m no psychiatrist; if that’s the official diagnosis, fine. “We’re delighted to have you join us, Roland,” I said. “Do you have questions about the center — about its philosophy, for example, or its rules?”

He shrugged again. “Fred gave me a brochure. I think I pretty much got everything down.” He looked around the room again. “What’s with the thermoses?”

“They’re one of the homey touches here,” Brian said, sounding honored by the privilege of informing a celebrity. “See, the kitchen staff fills the thermoses by nine in the morning and puts them in the refrigerator, so we’ll have something to drink during therapy sessions and free periods. You can have just about whatever you want — just tell the staff. Me, I always have mineral water.”

“Sounds tasty,” Roland said. “What’s in your thermos, Martha?”

“Sweet tea,” she said, blushing — with pleasure, I thought. “When I was a little girl, we’d visit my aunt in Georgia every summer, and she’d make sweet tea and serve it to us on the front porch. It’s a precious memory, because—”

“Yeah, and I bet your aunt’s dead now,” Brian cut in, perhaps upset because Martha had drawn Roland’s attention away from him. “All that sugar! Before you know it, you’re obese, you’re diabetic, you’re dead. I used to have a sweet tooth — I admit it. No more. I quit cold turkey six months ago and haven’t had a grain of sugar since. I don’t even want it any more.”

“Well, I always ask for diet soda in my thermos,” Courtney said, with an arch look at Roland. “No calories.”

“Loaded with artificial sweeteners, though,” Brian pointed out. “Worst possible thing for you. They throw your whole metabolism off, make you digest food less efficiently. You’ll be fat before you’re thirty, Courtney.”

“I can’t imagine that.” Roland gazed at Courtney with a frank appreciation that made her look ready to swoon. He turned around in his chair. “What about you, Felix? What’re you drinking?”

I’d almost forgotten Felix was in the room — he’s so quiet that he melds into the furniture. Now, he looked deeply flustered, clearly wanting to respond but not able to manage it. At the risk of feeding his addiction, I decided to help. “The beverage in Felix’s thermos,” I said.

He sighed with relief. “What is skim milk?” he asked.

Brian guffawed. “Milk. That figures. You gotta make allowances for Felix, Roland — nice enough guy, solid businessman, but sorta odd. And sorta secretive. It took me a long time to get him to admit he’s never had a real date with a girl.”

“You, by contrast, immediately announced you’ve been divorced three times,” Martha said, stitching viciously. “I suppose that makes you feel superior to Felix.”

“Hey, at least I’ve been married — more than you can say, Martha. And at least I know how to talk to women.” Brian’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Felix does have one woman in his life, though. Let’s see — how should I phrase this?” He thought for a moment, then turned to face Felix. “The category is Millionaires Who Have Never Had Houses or Apartments of Their Own. And the answer is Felix.”

Felix hung his head. “Who still lives with Mother?” he said, his voice barely audible.

Clearly, it was time to take control of the session. I asked the guests to get out their Recovery Journals and share their reflections, and that took up the rest of our time. Brian accused Courtney of copying ideas from his journal — her reflections did sound remarkably similar to his — but that was the only moment of tension. I sent the guests on their way and hurried to the office to read files for my afternoon groups.

After half an hour, feeling uneasy about the conflicts that surfaced during the morning session, I decided to check on the group members, who had a free period now. Passing through the courtyard, I spotted Brian and Roland locked in conversation; Brian was talking about the profits one of his companies had garnered during the last quarter, probably trying to persuade Roland to invest. Unfortunately, Brian was punctuating his sales talk with push-ups, and I had to tell him to stop — he’s not allowed vigorous exercise while he’s in rehab.

I found Courtney and Felix in the Caterpillar Room. Courtney was reading a well-worn copy of a Sue Grafton novel, probably borrowed from the room’s small library; Felix was trying to look interested in the paint-by-numbers landscape he was completing. Poor man — he’s not permitted to read in rehab, for fear he’ll add to his store of trivia. I asked about Martha, and Courtney said she’d decided to take a nap before lunch. Well, all that seemed normal enough.

And now I really should have something to eat myself. I’ve used up most of my lunch hour taking these notes, and I need some nourishment to give me strength to face my afternoon groups.

“So I never got a chance to take notes about my other two groups,” Leah said. She rinsed the last plate and handed it to Sam. “I didn’t get another free minute all day.”

“Too bad.” Sam dried the plate and placed it in the cupboard. “How did your afternoon groups go? Any problems?”

“Not really. Some people in the Verbal Addictions group were hard to take. I didn’t mind the rapper so much, and the rhymer was sweet. But the punster and the insult addict! I enjoyed the Compulsive Hobbyists group, though. I learned a lot about coin collecting. And did you know there are hundreds of Civil War reenactments every year, in over thirty states? Did you know there are American Civil War reenactments in Italy and Australia?”

“I’ll store the information away carefully,” Sam said, “in case I ever go on Jeopardy! This Felix sounds like a pretty sad guy.”

“I don’t think he is, actually.” Leah plunged the skillet into the suds and started scrubbing. “I think in his own weird little world, in his own weird little way, he’s happy. His mother pressured him to go into rehab — she loves him dearly, she says, but she’s worried about what will happen when she passes away. She’s got a point. So, how did the meeting with the Hartwells go?”

“Brilliant,” Sam said. “Genius. I did some Internet research and found out ‘Hartwell’ means ‘well of the stags.’ So I did a sketch of a well with big bucks standing on either side, just lousy with antlers — it’s a bird bath and a family crest. Both Mr. and Mrs. loved it. They signed a check big enough to cover our mortgage payments for two months. So if you don’t want to go back to this center tomorrow—”

“Of course I do.” She stopped washing dishes and turned to look at him. “I made a commitment to Fred, to the people in my groups. Why wouldn’t I want to go back?”

“I guess I’m the one who doesn’t want you to go back,” Sam admitted. “I still worry about your being around all those addicts. Did you listen to the noon news today? It turns out that gambling addict has been embezzling for years but hiding it so cleverly that no one caught on to it before. The police followed a trail that seemed to lead to Atlantic City, but it turned into nothing — who knows where that embezzler’s holing up? And that small-time drug dealer shot execution-style, Arnold Belmont — did you know he was just nineteen? An informant told the police his suppliers killed him for stealing two hundred thousand dollars — but they didn’t find the money. As for the person who wounded two people in a drunken rage, the police have no leads. I don’t like it, Leah. All this crazy, violent stuff going on, and it feels like you’re in the middle of it.”

“I’m in the middle of silly squabbles between plagiarists and proofreaders. There’s absolutely no connection between that and those scary stories in the news. Well, that’s the last of the dishes. Go finish your design. I’ll play homework police.”

She quizzed Rachel on her multiplication tables, then turned to Sarah. “How are you doing on that history essay?” she asked.

“It’s done,” Sarah said. “Math’s done, too. So all I have left is religious school. I still don’t get it, Mom. Why is Mrs. Goldberg making us do this every night?”

“It’s part of counting the omer. Remember? It’s a way of marking the forty-nine days between Passover and Shavuot, between the exodus from Egypt and the giving of the Torah at Sinai. And during those days, it’s traditional to study PirkeiAvot. Mrs. Goldberg just wants you to take a few minutes each night to think about one saying from Pirkei Avot. I think it’s a wonderful assignment.”

“That’s because you don’t have to do it,” Sarah said, pouting.

“Watch your tone, please,” Leah said, not too gently. “That’s no way to speak to your mother.”

“I know. Sorry. Okay, then. Pirkei Avot — I keep forgetting what that even means.”

“There are several ways of translating it,” Leah said. “My favorite is ‘Ethics of the Sages.’ It’s a book of moral teachings that some great rabbis of the past have handed down to us. What saying did Mrs. Goldberg choose for tonight?”

Sighing, Sarah opened her notebook. “It’s a saying of Rabbi Ben Azzai: ‘Be as quick in carrying out a minor mitzvah as in carrying out a major one, and flee wrongdoing; for one mitzvah leads to another mitzvah, and one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing; for the reward for a mitzvah is another mitzvah, and the reward for a wrongdoing is another wrongdoing.’ I don’t get it.”

“I bet you will,” Leah said, “if you just think about it. You know what a mitzvah is, don’t you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Sarah said. “It’s a Commandment.”

Rachel twisted around in her chair. “No, it isn’t. It’s a good deed.”

“You’re both right,” Leah said, “because the Commandments teach us to do good deeds. And when we do good deeds, we’re honoring the Commandments.”

“But this saying doesn’t make sense,” Sarah said. “We should be as quick about doing minor mitzvoth as about doing major ones? So clearing the table is as important as, like, saving someone’s life?”

“Ben Azzai doesn’t say they’re equally important,” Leah said. “I think his point is that doing minor mitzvoth helps us develop the habit of doing the right thing. Then, when an opportunity to do a major mitzvah comes along, we’ll be ready. See? ‘One mitzvah leads to another mitzvah.’ And ‘the reward for a mitzvah is another mitzvah.’ ”

Sarah scrunched up her nose. “So the reward for clearing the table is that I get to clear the table again?”

“In a way,” Leah said, smiling. “Every time you clear the table, you take a step toward becoming a helpful person who will be ready to help in lots of ways, both big and small. Ben Azzai also says the opposite is true — ‘one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing.’ If you get into the habit of doing things that are wrong, even just a little bit wrong, you’re more likely to become someone who does lots of wrong things, including things that are very wrong. Does that make sense?”

“I guess.” Sarah picked up her pen. “I guess I can write a paragraph about that. You think it’s okay to use clearing the table as an example?”

“I think it’s fine,” Leah said, and kissed her on the forehead, and went downstairs.

Wednesday, April 27, 2:47 p.m.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to take notes or not. I have plenty of time — afternoon groups have been canceled, and we’re all sitting around, waiting for news. But I feel so numb that it’s hard to hold onto my pencil. Still, I feel I should try to write things down. Somehow, I feel that’s important.

From the moment I got to the Caterpillar Room, I should have sensed that something was wrong. When I arrived five minutes early, Brian was already there, looking flushed, doing crunches.

“Oh, Brian,” I said, “you know you’re not supposed to do that sort of exercise. You should conserve your calories. Why don’t you get your thermos and take a seat?”

“Maybe that’s a good idea.” He walked slowly to the couch. “I don’t feel so great.”

He’d forgotten his thermos. I opened the refrigerator door, spotted the purple thermos labeled “Brian,” and set it on the end table next to him. “Maybe you worked out too hard and got dehydrated. Have some water.”

“In a minute.” He sat hunched forward, pressing one of the three bright red throw pillows against his stomach. “I’m not thirsty right now.”

Felix scurried in next, managed a slight, silent smile, got his thermos, and sat in the same chair he’d chosen yesterday. A minute later, Martha arrived, found her thermos and a chair, and immediately took out her sampler. I walked over to admire it.

“ ‘Fools hate reproof,’ ” I said, reading the cross-stitched words, “ ‘but the wise love correction’ — that’s from Proverbs, isn’t it? The translation I know is slightly different.”

“I edited it,” she said, adding several quick, hard stitches to the eagle’s tail feathers. She took a sip from her thermos, frowned, and set the thermos down.

“It’s certainly an appropriate verse for a copy editor,” I said, “or a tutor.”

She winced. “Yes. I’d planned to give it to someone, but now I suppose I’ll keep it.” Without setting down her needle, she reached over to touch the bracelet on her left wrist. The oversized red beads were shaped like apples, I noticed. That was clever — ugly, yes, and gaudy, but clever.

Roland strode in next, and the whole room seemed instantly brighter. “Hey, who’s always late for rehearsal?” he said. “Ten o’clock on the dot, and here I am. This place is helping me already — I bet I’ll be all the way rehabilitated within a week. Let’s see if they remembered my thermos.” He flung open the refrigerator door, found the yellow thermos labeled with his name, sipped, and smiled. “Orange juice. Just what I requested. Now, if I can get them to add some vodka — but that’s probably against the rules.”

Why was I laughing? He hadn’t said anything even vaguely amusing. But I couldn’t help it. “It might be a bit much to expect in the morning. Well, as soon as Courtney gets here, we’ll start.”

Seven or eight minutes passed. I was about to go look for her when she stalked in, looking peevish. “Sorry. My mom called, and she would not shut up.”

“I’m sorry, Courtney,” I said, “but there’s a rule against receiving outside calls at the center.”

“Fred waived the rule for me, since I’m under twenty-one. My parents can call me — that’s it.” She grabbed her thermos and hurled herself into an armchair. “Next time you see Fred, tell him as far as I’m concerned, he can waive his damn waiver.”

I decided I didn’t need to respond to that. “All right. Today, you’re all supposed to work on your personal inventories. Who’d like to start?”

Thank goodness for Roland. Immediately, he launched into an enthusiastic description of his mistakes and shortcomings, mixing sometimes startling confessions with charming little jokes and side comments reminding us that he was basically a great guy. Nobody else contributed much. Felix, of course, said nothing — I’d gotten used to that. Twice, Martha corrected Roland’s grammar; beyond that, she too stayed silent. Courtney just stared at her clenched hands, not making eye contact with anyone. And Brian — Brian’s silence was the most puzzling. Yesterday, he’d chimed in constantly, always ready with a complaint or a criticism or a revelation designed to embarrass someone else. Today, he sat hunched over the pillow, breathing heavily, his face visibly damp with sweat. Midway through Roland’s account of a wild spending spree, I glanced at Brian and saw that his shoulders were shaking.

“Excuse me, Roland,” I cut in. “Brian, are you all right?”

“I dunno,” he said. “My stomach’s cramping up something awful, and my heart’s racing like crazy. It can’t be the crunches — I just did thirty-seven.”

“Another misplaced limiting modifier,” Martha said. “You mean, ‘I did just thirty-seven.’ ”

“Maybe you should lie down,” I said. “Roland, could you help him to his room?”

But Brian didn’t make it that far. Even with Roland’s strong arms to support him, Brian took only two steps before collapsing to his knees, retching miserably. Martha got a wastebasket to him just in time, and I raced down the hall to the nurse’s station.

By the time we got back to the room, Brian was stretched out on the couch, panting rapidly. The nurse crouched next to him. “Did you feel sick when you got up this morning, Brian?” she asked.

But he was too wretched to answer. “He seemed fine,” Martha volunteered. “I saw him walking through the courtyard during Independent Meditation Hour — he looked perfectly healthy.”

“So it started suddenly. Could be food poisoning,” the nurse said. “It would help to know what he had for breakfast.”

“What is oatmeal?” Felix supplied. He stood at the end of the couch, looking pale.

“I had the same thing, from the same serving dish,” Roland said, “only I had four times as much as he did. The only other thing he had was water.”

“That pretty much rules out food poisoning,” the nurse said. “Let’s get him to his room. I’d better call the doctor. Leah, inform Fred.”

For reasons I didn’t exactly understand, I grabbed Brian’s yellow thermos. It felt light. Later, after the doctor arrived, I opened the thermos and saw it was almost empty. I hadn’t noticed Brian drink anything during the therapy session, but maybe he’d had some water during Independent Meditation Hour — the thermoses would be filled by then, and guests can go wherever they like to meditate. Could someone get food poisoning from mineral water? It didn’t seem likely, but I didn’t know enough to rule it out. I went to Brian’s room and told the doctor about the thermos.

“I doubt that has anything to do with it,” the doctor said, “but I’ll take the thermos along and have the water tested, just in case. We’d better get this man to the hospital. His heart rate’s completely erratic.” He looked down at Brian, who lay on his bed soaked in sweat, seeming oblivious to everything, his whole body shaking. “I checked his file. Losing over eighty pounds in six months — that can put a strain on the heart, just as gaining weight rapidly can. And if he’s still been pushing too hard on diet and exercise, that might well bring on this sort of attack.”

It was a reasonable explanation, but I felt uneasy. After the ambulance took Brian away, I went to check on the other guests in the group.

I found them all gathered in Martha’s room. Martha sat at her desk, staring fixedly at a small antique clock that looked like a family heirloom; Felix stood nearby, holding a large plastic file box labeled “Cooking with Flair,” flipping idly through the dozen or so laminated recipe cards it contained, stealing anxious glances at Martha. Both Courtney and Roland stood by the window. He gazed out at the Cocoon Center’s lush grounds; she spoke to him softly, her hand resting on his arm. When I said Brian had been taken to the hospital, Roland turned around sharply.

“But he’ll be okay, right?” he said. “Even if it’s a heart attack, people survive heart attacks all the time. And he’s in basically great shape, and they got him to the hospital quickly — they’ll know how to take care of him there.”

“Yeah, heart attacks often aren’t fatal,” Courtney agreed. “Plus Brian’s receiving prompt medical attention from knowledgeable experts, and his overall fitness level is good. He’ll be fine, won’t he?”

“I hope so.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s your lunch hour. You may not feel like eating, but it’s probably good to stick to the schedule.”

Obediently, they filed out. Not knowing what else to do, I walked back to Brian’s room and found Fred locking the door — standard procedure when a guest left the center unexpectedly, he said, to protect personal possessions. In view of what had happened, Fred had decided to suspend all planned activities for the afternoon while we waited for news. So I grabbed a sandwich and came to the staff lounge to take these notes.

4:15—

Moments after I wrote the last sentence, Fred came to the lounge to deliver sad news. Brian is dead.

“If you feel that strongly about it,” Sam said, “call him.”

Leah propped her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. “He’ll think I’m an idiot.”

“Probably. But if you think there’s even a chance it’s murder, you should call.”

Sighing, Leah took the well-worn business card from her wallet and dialed the number. “Lieutenant Brock? It’s Leah Abrams. You won’t believe this, but I think it’s happened again.”

Within the hour, Lieutenant Brock sat at their kitchen table, listening to Leah’s narration while Sam poured coffee. She gave quick descriptions of the Cocoon Center and of the people she’d met there, a more detailed description of what had happened that morning. When she finished, he stirred his coffee slowly.

“I can see why you’re upset,” he said. “Watching a guy who seemed strong and healthy get so sick all of a sudden, having him die — I’d be upset too. And after what you went through those other four times, it’s no wonder you expect somebody to get murdered whenever you take a temp job. But I stopped by the hospital on my way over here, and it sure looks like a natural death this time. The doctors agreed on that, and nobody from our department is giving them an argument. The guy was fifty-two, he’d been obese all his life, he lost so much weight so fast, he was still starving himself and overdoing the exercise even though his doctor warned him to slow down — all adds up to a heart attack.”

“I know,” she said. “But so many things seem so odd. What about the water in his thermos? The doctor said he’d have that tested — did he?”

Brock nodded. “Yup. Pure mineral water. No trace of poison of any kind.”

“Oh.” Leah rubbed her forehead. “Will there be an autopsy?”

“No reason for one,” Brock said. “Cause of death seems clear. The guy’s only heir — an estranged son from his second marriage — flew in from Chicago to arrange the funeral. He hasn’t requested an autopsy.”

“But you could request one,” Leah said. “Couldn’t you? Lieutenant, I really think this man was poisoned.”

Brock sighed. “Testing for poisons is expensive, Mrs. Abrams, especially since we don’t have any idea of which poisons to test for. Let me ask you this. If this guy was poisoned, it pretty much had to be by someone at the Cocoon Center. Now, nobody there will profit from his death — his son’s gonna get everything. Can you think of any other reason why anyone at the center would want this guy dead?”

“I can’t,” Leah said. “He wasn’t a nice man — he insulted almost everyone in our group. But none of the insults seemed harsh enough to provide a motive for murder. And I don’t know how the poison could have been administered. It wasn’t in the oatmeal he had for breakfast, evidently, or in his thermos. Maybe it was in a medication — he probably took vitamins. You could have those tested, couldn’t you?”

“I could,” Brock said, “if I had any justification for it. And we’ve got a lot of other stuff on our hands right now — trying to find that embezzler and figure out who killed that small-time drug dealer and track down that drunk who shot two people.” He paused, drumming his fingers on the table. “Well, hell. You’ve helped us solve four murders. You’ve got damn good instincts — you’ve proven that time and again. I’m gonna request that autopsy, Mrs. Abrams. If the captain gives me a hard time, I’ll weather it — and if the autopsy reveals anything interesting, I’ll call you. Why don’t you see if you can get into this guy’s room at the center, check out his medications?”

“I think I can manage that.” Her shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“No problem.” He took a last sip of coffee and stood up. “Say, what’s happening with that book of yours, the one about impactful disclosure through nonarticulate signifiers? Is it coming out soon?”

“I didn’t find a publisher for it, actually,” she said. “An intern at a university press seemed enthusiastic about my proposal; unfortunately, he couldn’t get it past marketing. I’m working on a new book—

A Hermeneutics of Workplace Communications: Contra-Experiential Expectations, Obfuscated Infrastructures, and Exertion-Intensive Behaviors. I feel sure this one will have wider commercial appeal.”

“No doubt about it,” Brock said. He winked and left.

Thursday, April 28

When I volunteered to pack Brian’s things, Fred accepted gratefully. Just as I’d expected, I found several bottles of vitamins. There wasn’t much else to pack — just toiletries, sweatpants, tank tops, underwear. As I was rolling up socks, I heard something crinkle. Odd, I thought, and reached into the toe of a thick white sock and pulled out two crumpled Snickers wrappers.

So even our dieting fanatic cheated sometimes, I thought, smiling sadly — the cheating made Brian seem more human, and that made my task feel more poignant. I started to throw the wrappers away, then paused.

Brian had boasted that he’d conquered his sweet tooth. He’d said he hadn’t tasted or even craved sugar in months. That, obviously, had been a lie. Sometimes, obviously, he’d sneaked sugar. What if the sugar craving had hit him again? When I’d walked into the Caterpillar Room yesterday morning, he’d been doing frantic crunches. Had he been working off calories he’d just indulged in on the sly?

Sitting on the bed, I pictured Brian’s almost empty thermos, pictured Martha taking a sip of sweet tea, frowning, and setting her thermos down. Had Brian come to the Caterpillar Room early to guzzle down most of Martha’s tea? Had he covered up his theft by pouring most of his mineral water into her thermos? Unlike other guests at the center, Martha hadn’t been pampered all her life. If her tea tasted too weak, she probably wouldn’t complain. She’d probably just frown and stop drinking.

I pressed my hand against my forehead. Last night, I’d lain sleepless for hours, trying to figure out why anyone at the center would want to kill Brian. Should I have been trying to figure out why anyone would want to kill Martha?

Immediately, the inconsistencies started hitting me. “Martha hadn’t been pampered all her life” — a ludicrous understatement. She’d been fired. She’d been subsisting on freelance copy-editing and tutoring. She probably didn’t have health insurance. How could she afford this place? Maybe she was independently wealthy. But her sweater was worn at the elbows, and she didn’t act like an heiress. She acted like a bitter woman used to being treated shabbily. I looked around Brian’s room again. He’d brought only a few things here — only clothes, vitamins, toiletries. Only the sorts of things one would expect someone to bring to a rehab center. Martha had brought an antique clock and a recipe file. Why?

My cell phone rang. “We got lucky, Mrs. Abrams,” Lieutenant Brock said. “I put a rush on that autopsy — the coroner owes me a favor — and the first test he did turned up positive. Oleander poisoning. Probably ingested in liquid form, the coroner said — that’s probably why it acted so quickly, especially since this guy didn’t eat much and his stomach was always mostly empty. Probably, someone stuck oleander stems in water, extracted the poison that way, slipped it into something he drank. Only problem is, the coroner says the water would taste really sweet. And this guy didn’t drink anything but water, right? You’d think he’d have noticed—”

“Actually, he may have had some sweet tea yesterday. It’s too complicated to explain now, but would adding the poisoned water to sweet tea hide the taste?”

“I’d think so, yeah. Now, you said there are lots of flowering plants at this center. Any oleander?”

“I don’t know what oleander looks like. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll head over to the center now and check. Just sit tight till I get there. Don’t confront anyone. Looks like we’re dealing with a killer, Mrs. Abrams.”

I closed my phone and glanced at my watch. Almost 10:00. I had to go meet my group. And someone in that group might be a murderer.

When I got to the Caterpillar Room, Felix sat in his usual chair near the back of the room; Martha sat in a pastel print armchair, working on her sampler, not looking up. Did she suspect someone tried to kill her yesterday? Probably not — she looked tired, but not frightened. Both Roland and Courtney sat on the dark green couch, rather close together. He’d piled up all three of the red throw pillows and was leaning back against them as he told Courtney about his movie.

“It’s not a standard romantic comedy,” he said. “My character has an arc. At first, he’s cynical, doesn’t believe in love anymore, because he’s divorced. His turning point comes when he meets the Amber Andrews character. She’s cynical, too, because she just got dumped by the guy she dated in the last movie.”

“A sequel.” Martha pursed her lips. “Too bad. Sequels are always disappointing. Name one sequel that won an Oscar.”

“What is Godfather II?” Felix said, eagerly.

Martha smiled. “Quite right, Felix. That was a sequel, and it was excellent. Well. Half of it was excellent.”

“Yeah, fifty percent was good,” Courtney said. She seemed out of her depth.

“True,” Roland said “The part about Michael was lame, but the part about young Vito getting drawn into a life of crime — fantastic. There’s a character with an arc. Vito’s turning point comes when a small-time gangster asks him to hide some guns—”

“Who is Clemenza?” Felix sat forward, his face pink with excitement.

“Right,” Roland said. “Vito doesn’t realize what he’s getting into, but now he’s guilty, too, because he helped Clemenza.”

Courtney nodded vigorously. “Vito’s not innocent any more. He’s a criminal, just like Credenza.” I don’t think she had any idea of what she was talking about.

“That’s enough movie trivia.” Martha’s face had gone pale. “Leah, could we please move on?”

“In a minute,” Roland said. “I wanna develop the parallel with my character some more. See, there’s no turning back for Vito. He sinks deeper and deeper—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Tossing her sampler aside, Martha stood up and stalked out of the room.

Roland lifted both hands in a helpless, uncomprehending gesture. “Hey, what’d I say? I was just describing Vito’s arc.”

I didn’t understand it, either. Picking up Martha’s sampler, I gazed at the image of an eagle soaring past a beautiful mountain. Slowly, things started coming together — Martha’s bracelet, Martha’s room, even the stories Sam had been following in the news and the lawn ornament he was making for the Hartwells. “Felix,” I said. “The meaning of the name ‘Arnold.’ ”

His face clouded with confusion. “What is ‘eagle?’ ” he said.

I nodded. “And the meaning of ‘Belmont.’ ”

His eyes darted to the sampler; his voice dropped to a whisper. “What is ‘beautiful mountain?’ ”

I nodded again. “Please take a break, everyone. I need to speak to Martha.”

Taking the sampler with me, I found her in her room, sitting at her desk, staring down at her bracelet. “I’m sorry I made a fuss,” she said. “I got upset by all the talk about guns and crime.”

An odd response from someone who evidently enjoyed Godfather II, I thought. But it was time to stop noting inconsistencies, time to start explaining them. “Those are interesting beads,” I said. “Shaped like apples — apples for the teacher? Was that bracelet a gift from a student?”

Her back stiffened visibly. “From a young man I tutored for a while, yes.”

I set the sampler down on the desk. “Was this supposed to be a gift for the same student?” I paused. “For Arnold Belmont?”

She looked up at me, her face stretched taut with fear. “Oh, my God — they found me. They sent you to kill me. Please, I’ll give it back, every penny of it. And I swear I didn’t know what was in the box — I didn’t open it until I heard he was dead.”

“It’s all right.” I sat down on her bed. “I’m not a drug dealer, and I don’t work for drug dealers. I’m just a temporary secretary with a husband who reads newspaper stories about local crimes. The symbolism on your sampler helped me see the link with Arnold Belmont. Were you creating a family crest for him?”

She nodded slowly, watching me, probably still not sure if she could trust me. “He didn’t like the name ‘Arnold.’ He called it ‘a sissy name.’ I was trying to show him it’s a beautiful name, a noble name.”

“But he died before you could give it to him,” I said. “Was it like the scene in Godfather II? He came to you one night and gave you something and asked you to keep it for him. He must have feared that his suppliers suspected him of stealing the money. He didn’t want them to find it in his possession; he thought he’d be safe that way. But they killed him anyhow.”

“He was just nineteen.” A tear started down her cheek, and she rubbed it away. “In so many ways, he was such a nice young man — so respectful, so eager to learn. He didn’t mind when I corrected him. He hoped to go to college some day, to change his life. He was eager to embrace the opportunities so many young people despise and resent. He’d never told me what he did for a living, but I suppose I’d always sensed it was something — well. Not quite kosher.” She managed a wry smile. “Even so, I agreed to keep the box. When I heard he was dead, when I opened the box, I had to face the truth.”

“And you must have feared that he’d told his killers where the money was before he died,” I said. “You must have feared they’d come looking for you. So you decided to hide in a rehab center while you figured out what to do, and you took your most precious possessions with you in case it never felt safe to go home, in case you decided you had to disappear somehow. Why didn’t you go to the police?”

She lifted her shoulders. “I was afraid that they wouldn’t believe me, that they’d think that I must be involved in illegal things, too, that they’d think I was Arnold’s accomplice. I was afraid they’d arrest me.” She paused. “And I wanted to keep the money. I’ve worked so hard, I’ve been treated so unfairly, I’ve struggled so much — I felt I deserved it. So I used some of it to pay for a two-week stay here. I hid the rest.”

She’d chosen her rehab center wisely, I thought — one that promises complete confidentiality, one that doesn’t search guests’ belongings when they check in, one that doesn’t mind accepting payments in cash. Had Fred suspected that something about Martha was, in her phrase, not quite kosher? Had he been too eager to fill his luxurious rooms to care? “Has someone taken the money, Martha?” I asked.

She looked startled. “No — that is, I haven’t checked today, but I don’t think so. Why would you ask?”

I gestured toward the recipe file. “It’s a large file but contains only a few cards. I thought you might have hidden the money there, and someone might have taken it.”

Again, she smiled wryly. “Very observant. Yes, I did keep it there at first. But when Fred searched our rooms the other night, I got nervous. I don’t want the money found in my possession — I’d rather risk losing it. So I moved it.” She hesitated, then looked at me directly. “I moved it to a very safe place, Leah. I’m sure it’s still there. And there’s a lot of it. I’ll give you half if you—”

“No,” I said. “A policeman’s on his way here. When he arrives, tell him everything.”

She let out a sound that was halfway to a sob. “You called a policeman? He’s coming to arrest me for keeping the money?”

“Not to arrest you,” I said. “To figure out who tried to kill you.”

Before Lieutenant Brock arrived, though, I just about figured it out myself. It had made no sense to me that anyone would want to murder either Brian or Martha — there didn’t seem to be a motive. Now that I knew about the money, the motive seemed clear. Someone had found the money, and wanted it, and figured stealing it would be safer if Martha weren’t around to report the theft. Of course, she wouldn’t have reported it — she’d have been too afraid of getting in trouble herself — but the would-be thief didn’t know that. And then Martha prevented the theft by moving the money to a new hiding place, and Brian messed up the murder by drinking Martha’s tea. That must be one frustrated wrongdoer, I thought.

But who was it? It might be a guest or staff member I hadn’t met. My thoughts, though, focused on our group. Not Felix — he evidently had plenty of money and very few wants. If a new biography of Alex Trebek came out, Felix might be tempted to splurge, but he could manage that without stealing from Martha. And Courtney came from a wealthy family, and Roland probably made more in a week than most people do in a year. But Courtney yearned to pursue a path her family would never support, and Roland had IRS troubles and lavish spending habits. Either might covet a hefty stack of cash. Which one had found it? Which had schemed to steal it?

There was a knock on the door, and I stepped into the hall to talk to Lieutenant Brock. “What’s going on?” he said. “I told you to sit tight, not to confront anybody — and I find you holed up with a patient. Is she the one you suspect? You trying to interrogate her all on your own?”

I shook my head. “Martha’s not the murderer, Lieutenant. She’s the intended victim. Did you find any oleander?”

“Whole bunch of it, right in the courtyard. What do you mean, intended victim?”

“I have things to tell you,” I said. “So does Martha.” I took a deep breath. “And then I think you should talk to someone named Courtney.”

“So where did Martha hide the money?” Sam asked. “The second time, I mean.”

Leah poured lemonade first for Lieutenant Brock, then for herself — Sam had made sweet tea, too, but no one seemed interested. “She hid it in a throw pillow in the Caterpillar Room. I should have known. On my first day at the center, there were two throw pillows on the couch — I mentioned that in my notes. The next day, there were three. You see, after Fred conducted his search, Martha got nervous, took a pillow to her room, and sewed the money into it while pretending to be napping during the free period. Then she put the pillow back where it belonged. I noticed that there were three pillows the next day, but the change didn’t really register. And naturally Martha chose a hiding place that let her use her sewing skills. I feel foolish about not making those connections.”

“You made plenty of connections,” Brock said. “I still haven’t figured out all of them. What made you sure it was Courtney, not Roland?”

“Several things,” Leah said. “Brian accused Courtney of sneaking into Martha’s room the night before the search and copying ideas from her recovery journal. I’m sure he was right — Courtney copied ideas from Brian’s journal, too, the next night. While she was in Martha’s room, Courtney must have looked in the recipe file.”

Sam frowned. “Why would she do that?”

“Probably because it looked so out of place. Why would anyone bring recipes to a center where all meals are provided? Felix was looking through the file, too, after Brian got sick — anybody would be curious. Anyway, Courtney saw the money, but she didn’t take it right away.”

“She took three hundred dollars,” Brock put in. “We found it under her mattress — serial numbers matched ones we had for the drug money. She probably figured that much wouldn’t be missed, and she was right. Then, after Roland came to the center, she started itching to take the rest. He told us she flirted with him, talked about going to Hollywood with him when he left the center, having him introduce her to celebrities who need personal assistants. He admitted he encouraged her, also admitted he wasn’t especially serious about it — mostly, he was thinking about getting some action to brighten up his days in rehab. Anyway, Courtney would need money to keep her going a while once she got to Hollywood. I bet that’s when Martha’s stash started looking good to her.”

“I bet you’re right,” Leah said. “So she poisoned Martha’s tea the next morning — I hope you can prove that, Lieutenant.”

“Well, when I arrested her, she said I couldn’t charge her with murdering Brian because she’d never meant to murder him; she’d meant to murder Martha, and Martha was fine. She said it wasn’t her fault that Brian drank Martha’s tea. Not the world’s strongest defense. But now her parents have her lawyered up good — I’m not holding my breath waiting for more confessions. We found a custodian who spotted her clipping oleander, though, and a vase with traces of oleander in the back of her closet — we’re getting closer. And maybe you can come up with more evidence, Mrs. Abrams.”

“Probably nothing that would stand up in court. There’s the fact that she was late to therapy on the day of the poisoning. She said she’d gotten a phone call from her mother — did you check on that?”

“Yup,” Brock said. “Her mother was getting a tummy tuck then, definitely not talking to her daughter. You figure Courtney was late because she’d been searching Martha’s room, going nuts when she realized the money was gone?”

“Yes,” Leah said. “She’d definitely want to grab the money before Martha got sick; afterwards, the room would be full of doctors and nurses, and then Fred would lock it to protect Martha’s possessions. Also, not everyone would be able to recognize oleander — I can’t. But Courtney said her mother ‘dragged’ her to garden shows for years. I bet Courtney learned a lot about plants, just by osmosis. I also bet a jury wouldn’t be impressed by that.” Leah smiled ruefully. “They probably also wouldn’t be impressed by evidence from Pirkei Avot.”

“From Pirkei Avot?” Sam said. “From Sarah’s religious school homework? That helped you realize Courtney tried to kill Martha?”

“It did. ‘Flee wrongdoing,’ Rabbi Ben Azzai says. Even minor wrongdoings are dangerous, because ‘one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing.’ Not that plagiarism’s a minor wrongdoing — it’s a serious academic offense — but Courtney’s spent years breaking rules and thinking only about what she wants, not about what’s right. When the temptation to commit a major wrongdoing came along, she didn’t have the character to resist.”

“Yeah, character isn’t something you develop overnight,” Brock said, “or in six easy steps. Even a sweet tooth isn’t easy to overcome quickly — Brian found that out. That reminds me. Did Courtney’s arrest get you in trouble at the center?”

Leah sighed. “Fred fired me. And he complained to my agency, saying I’m a meddler who stirs up trouble. He would have preferred to let Courtney get away with murder, I suppose, to protect the center’s reputation. Oh, well. There are other temporary agencies. And I’ve developed reservations about the Cocoon Center. I’m sure some rehab centers do fine work, but Fred’s emphasis on quick results, on avoiding unpleasantness — I’m not sure that’s the right approach. Human beings aren’t caterpillars. Retreating from the world and sealing oneself up in a safe, comfortable place for a short time isn’t necessarily the best way of transforming oneself. I wish everyone there the best, though. What about Martha? Will she go to jail for withholding evidence?”

“No chance,” Brock said. “I got no interest in charging her — she basically panicked and blundered into this. And she’s cooperating fully now.”

“I’m glad,” Leah said, “especially since I think she and Felix may have a future together. Did you notice, Lieutenant? After you arrested Courtney, when we were all in the Caterpillar Room, Felix walked over to Martha and said, ‘I hope you’re not real upset, Martha.’ And she said, ‘Thank you, Felix. I’m fine.’ ”

Leah smiled brightly. The two men stared at each other. “So they made polite chitchat,” Sam said. “So what?”

“Don’t you see? He initiated a conversation with her — and he didn’t put it in the form of a question. And he made a grammatical error — he modified an adjective with another adjective, not with an adverb — but she didn’t correct him.” Leah’s eyes got dreamy. “They must be in love.”

“Definitely.” Brock covered his mouth with his hand. “Romance is in the air, all right. Now, what you said about one wrongdoing leading to another — I got that. But Roland’s an old pro at wrongdoing, too — picking fights, cheating on taxes, speeding. How did you decide Courtney was the murderer, not him?”

“One final piece of evidence,” she said. “Again, nothing you can use in court. On my first day at the center, during the free period, Courtney was reading a well-worn copy of a Sue Grafton novel — a copy of Sue Grafton’s very first Kinsey Millhone novel. A Is for Alibi.”

Sam breathed in sharply. “You’re kidding. A Is for Alibi — oleander poisoning. Courtney even plagiarized her murder method.”

“Talk about consistency of character,” Brock said. “Hey, I bet you can get a book out of all this, Mrs. Abrams — something about micro-transgressive behaviors eventuating in macro-transgressive behaviors, maybe. I bet you could find a way to link that to workplace communications.”

Leah smiled. “I’m already working on the title,” she said, and poured him more lemonade.

Copyright © 2011 B. K. Stevens