W Is for Wasted

32

When I arrived home, there was a parking spot right in front, which I took as a good sign. As I rounded the corner, moving into the backyard, I saw Henry in the act of closing his garage doors. He turned and picked up his four heavy plastic grocery bags, two in each hand.

“I thought you’d already done your grocery shopping.”

“These are for Ed. I’m trying five different brands of wet food to see which he prefers. He turns his nose up at beef. He says cats don’t eat cows.”

“Opinionated little guy, isn’t he? When I came home Tuesday, he popped in for a visit, just to have a look around. I was surprised he was out.”

“Ed was out on Tuesday? I don’t think so. He was in when I left and he was in when I came home.”

“That’s because I put him in.”

“How’d he manage to get out?”

“Beats me. Cats are mysterious. He might have transmogrified himself and slipped through the cracks like smoke,” I said.

“You think he’s capable of doing that?”

“How do I know? This is only the second or third cat I’ve met in my life.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on him,” he said. “How was your meeting with Dr. Reed? I hope he put your mind at ease.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. There’s still a big chunk of the story missing and he’s not the one who’s going to fill me in. At any rate, talking to him was a good suggestion. I guess I should thank you for browbeating me into it.”

“I’ll take full credit.”

As soon as I let myself into the studio, I went straight to the phone and called Ruthie. When she answered, I said, “Hey, Ruthie. Kinsey Millhone again.”

“Forget the last name. You’re the only Kinsey I know.”

“Sorry about that. Force of habit. Quick question I should have asked you while I was there. The guy who bought Pete’s Fairlane pulled the junk out of the map pockets and the glove compartment. Do you still have that plastic bag?”

“I’m looking at it. I was just about to go through it. I need the proof-of-insurance card so I can call Allstate and cancel the coverage.”

“Could you check and see if there’s a parking ticket in there? Not a citation—from a pay lot. It’d be an ivory color with pale green stickers on the back.”

“Hang on. I’m putting the receiver down, so don’t go away.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m turning the bag upside down, shaking everything out on the counter,” she called. “Ick. There’s a dead bug. What the hell is that thing?”

“Take your time,” I said.

She came back on the line. “Good news. I found a savings passbook I didn’t know we had. Okay, here. I’m looking at a ticket from UCST with stickers on the back.”

“Is there a date-and-time stamp?”

“Says July 12. Machine stamped at twelve forty-five P.M. when it was issued, but that’s it. No time stamp going out or the machine would have eaten it.”

“Hold on to that, okay? I’ll pop over there first chance I get and pick it up.”

“No problem.”

I trotted up the spiral stairs to the loft, where I unzipped my all-purpose dress and stepped out of it. Then I stripped off my pantyhose with a sigh of relief. I pulled on my usual workaday rags and went downstairs again.

There was a knock at the door and when I opened it, there stood Anna. She wore jeans and a blue knit top that made her blue eyes electric. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sure.”

I stepped back, inviting her in. “Sit anywhere you like.”

She chose a kitchen stool. I moved around the counter to the other side so we were facing each other. I was aware that I was putting a barrier between us, but it felt appropriate. Given her demeanor, I wasn’t sure how cozy this chat was going to be. I’d been irritated with her. Now it was payback time.

She said, “I called Ethan to give him Henry’s number so he’d know where I was. He has questions.”

“And what might those be?”

“Not for you. Ethan thinks I should talk to Daddy’s doctor directly. Henry says you have his phone number.”

“Dr. Reed wasn’t his physician. He’s in charge of the research program your father was enrolled in at one point.”

“I still want to talk to him if it’s all the same to you.”

“May I say one thing first?”

“Say anything you like.”

“Your father was scared to death of Dr. Reed. He thought the test drug was killing him and that’s why he dropped out of the trial. I believe he was right. His friends are convinced of it, too, but of course Dr. Reed won’t own up to that. According to him, your father was incapable of adhering to the guidelines and the clinic gave him the boot.”

“Why would he say that if it wasn’t true?”

“He has an agenda of his own. He came up with a proposal about a drug he thought would be effective in treating addicts. Now it looks like he’s being paid big bucks for a theory that isn’t panning out.”

“Why should I take your word for it? You say Daddy changed his will because he was pissed off at us, like it’s our fault and we should just suck it up and let you have everything. I can see how that serves your purposes, but we’re getting screwed.”

“I don’t have a purpose except to see that his wishes are carried out.”

“But you never met him. Isn’t that what you said?”

“That’s correct.”

“So you don’t know what was going on in his mind.”

“That’s true.”

“How do you know he wasn’t suffering from dementia? Ethan thinks he could have been delusional or confused.”

“And Ethan’s opinion is based on what?”

“The crazy way he behaved. He was mixed up or unbalanced or something.”

“Oh, I’m getting this. You’d like to think your father was mentally incompetent because that would invalidate the will. You’re hoping Dr. Reed will back you up.”

“That makes as much sense as your claim. If that medication made him sick, why couldn’t it have affected his mental state?”

“Always possible,” I said.

“So how do you know Dr. Reed wasn’t trying to help? How do you know my father wouldn’t be alive today, if he’d done as he was told?”

“I don’t know that. Nor do you. You want to talk to Dr. Reed, I can’t stop you, but I can tell you right now it’s a bad idea.”

I crossed to the desk, checked my notes, and jotted down Dr. Reed’s number on a slip of paper. I tore the leaf off the scratch pad and presented it to her. “His schedule’s clear for the afternoon, so if you run like a bunny, you can talk to him today. Let me know what he says. I’ll be interested in his response,” I said. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“Get stuffed.”

“You, too.”

I opened the door for her. This time, she’d barely made it through before I banged it shut behind her.

I closed my eyes, fighting for self-control. I was so irritated, I could barely contain myself.

I sat down. I took a deep breath. In a pinch, do something worthwhile, like clean the entire house.

I let my gaze roam and the first thing I saw was Pete’s remaining cardboard box with the big X on the lid, partially covered by the folders I’d decided to keep. Where was I supposed to put the damn thing? I couldn’t leave it where it was. My studio, while charming, is a bit short on storage space. In designing it, Henry had provided any number of nooks and crannies, built-in shelves and drawers, the oddly shaped cabinet here and there where a quirk of construction created a bonus cubby. I keep my possessions to a minimum and even so, I’m occasionally forced to beg a few feet of shelf space in Henry’s garage. I wasn’t going to do that for Pete’s junk. I did a 180-degree survey and finally took my foot and shoved the box to the back of the knee space under my desk.

I glanced down and saw the name Eloise Cantrell written on the scratch pad above Drew’s phone number. Under her name was a secondary note that said CCU.

I could feel my curiosity stirring along with a flicker of interest. The meeting with Dr. Reed had done little to erase the suspicions Dandy and Pearl had raised. Dr. Reed had met with Pete Wolinsky. Eloise Cantrell was the charge nurse in the Cardiac Care Unit at St. Terry’s when Dace had been admitted delirious. Soon afterward, he fled from the hospital and took a bus to Los Angeles. If he’d been frightened of Dr. Reed, she might have known why. Surely, all of these matters were related. I picked up a pen and circled her name. I hadn’t put a date on the note because I’d assumed the call was in error, never dreaming the contact might later seem significant.

I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out the telephone directory. I flipped to the S’s in the business listings and ran a finger down the page until I found “Santa Teresa Hospital.” There was a general number listed, a number for the emergency room, one for poison control, and then a few department numbers that could be dialed directly, including administration, billing, patient accounting, human resources, development, and public affairs.

I reached for the handset and punched in the general number. When the operator picked up, I asked to be connected to Cardiac Care. I did this without conscious thought, thinking a plan might work to my detriment. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too well prepared.

The ward clerk answered, saying, “Cardiac Care. This is Pamela.”

“Oh, hi, Pam. Is Eloise working today?”

“She’s in a staff meeting. Can I take a message?”

“Do you know what time her shift ends? She told me, but I can’t remember now what she said.”

“She’s on seven to three.”

“Great. Thanks so much.”

I could tell Pam was ready to take a message, perhaps already making a note of the time on one of those “While You Were Out” slips, but I hung up before she had a chance to quiz me. Now all I had to do was figure out what Eloise looked like.

By 2:30, erring on the side of caution, I parked in the lot across the street from St. Terry’s and made my way through the entrance and into the lobby. I asked for directions to CCU, and a volunteer walked me to the requisite corridor, where, with pointing and gestures, she explained how to proceed. I wondered if I’d ever be nice enough to volunteer for anything. I was hoping not.

When I reached the floor, I spotted a nurse’s aide emerging from a supply room, her arms loaded with clean linens. I flagged her down and asked if Eloise Cantrell was available.

“She’s at the nurse’s station.”

“Is she the little blonde?”

With exaggerated patience, the nurse’s aide said, “Noooo. Eloise is six feet tall and she’s African American.”

After that, it was no trick at all to pick Eloise from among the many white nurses at work. I took a seat in the waiting room within eye shot of the nurse’s station and leafed through an issue of a ladies’ magazine that was only four years out of date. I was impressed by all the uses there were for instant vanilla pudding. This homemaking business, while beyond my modest aspirations, never failed to amaze.

By the time Eloise left work, I was in the same corridor, lagging slightly behind to allow her to exit ahead of me. I followed her out of the building and tagged along in her wake. There were a number of pedestrians in the area, so she wasn’t alerted to my presence. I waited until she turned the corner from Chapel onto Delgado before I closed the gap between us. “Eloise? Is that you?”

She turned, clearly expecting to see a familiar face. Her lips parted as though she meant to speak.

“Kinsey Millhone,” I said, pausing in case she wanted to rejoice.

She was dark-skinned, her hair arranged in close lines of head-hugging braids, each of which ended in a sage-green bead that exactly matched her eyes. The hazel irises against the deep chocolate of her complexion was striking. I wouldn’t describe her expression as hostile, but it wasn’t welcoming.

“You called me a few months ago, looking for information about R. T. Dace.”

I waited to see if the name would ring a bell. “I thought you were saying Artie, remember that? But you were talking about Randall Terrence Dace . . . R.T,” I said, framing the initials in air quotes. Still no flash of recognition, so I tried again. “You asked for Mr. Millhone, thinking I was a guy.”

I could tell she remembered because she shut her mouth.

“I was curious where you picked up my name and number.”

I could see her weighing the pros and cons of a reply.

She said, “You were listed in his hospital chart as next of kin.”

“Are you aware he died ten days ago?” I asked.

Her tone was neutral. “I’m not surprised. He was in bad shape when I saw him last.”

“I was hoping you might answer a question or two.”

“Such as?”

“Did you know he’d enrolled in a drug trial?”

She thought about her answer briefly and then said, “Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with the physician in charge?”

“Dr. Reed. Yes.”

“Did he come into CCU while Terrence Dace was a patient?”

“Once as a visitor, yes. What makes you ask?”

“Someone told me Dace signed himself out of CCU without the doctor’s okay.”

Her stare was unyielding.

“Was there any discussion about why?” I asked.

She dropped her gaze, which made her impossible to read.

I plowed on. “His friends tell me he was scared to death of Dr. Reed. I wondered what the problem was. You have any idea?”

She turned and began walking away from me.

I followed six feet behind, my voice embarrassingly plaintive even to my own ears. “I heard Dr. Reed terminated him for noncompliance, but he was sober when he died. No alcohol or drugs in his system, so what was going on?”

She glanced back at me. “I work for the hospital. I’m not affiliated with the university. You want information about Dr. Reed’s work, talk to him. In the meantime, if you’re hoping I’ll sink to the level of rumor and gossip, you’re out of luck.”

She turned on her heel.

I stopped in my tracks and watched her walk away from me. What had she said? If I was hoping she’d “sink to the level of rumor and gossip”?

“What rumors?” I called after her.

No answer.

• • •

I wasn’t giving up on this. Henry had said that if I met with Reed and didn’t feel he’d leveled with me, I should talk to someone else. Obviously, in approaching Eloise Cantrell I was searching too far afield. Anything she knew would be hearsay. I needed someone more directly involved with him. The obvious answer was Mary Lee Bryce. She’d know what was going on behind the scenes. The problem was, I had no way to get to her without going through Willard. I could call her directly, but how would I explain who I was or why I was so interested in the work she did? I only knew about her because Willard had hired Pete. The notion of approaching him created a mild thrill of uneasiness. It wasn’t my job to keep his dealings with Pete a secret from his wife. I wasn’t responsible for protecting either of them. Willard wasn’t my client and Pete was dead. There was a certain, subterranean moral code in play, but surely, I could think of a way around that old thing.

When I got home, I sat down at my desk and pulled out the two folders. After a brief search, I found Willard’s address scratched on a piece of paper. Cherry Lane in Colgate. I locked the studio, hopped in the Mustang, and headed for the 101.

Next thing I knew, I was knocking on Willard’s door. I carried a clipboard, looking (I hoped) like my business was legitimate. In my heart of hearts, I did pray Mary Lee wouldn’t answer the door. I wanted to talk to her, but I had other matters to cover first. I knew nothing about Willard. I’d seen photos of Mary Lee, but none of him.

The man who responded to my knock struck me as strange the minute I laid eyes on him. His complexion was ruddy and his skin looked dry. His ginger-colored hair was clipped close to his skull and the tips of his ears were pink. I’d once seen a litter of newborn mice who’d exhibited the same naked characteristics. His eyes were pale blue and his lashes light; white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baggy trousers.

He rested his weight on forearm crutches and one leg was gone. “Yes?”

“Mr. Bryce?”

He didn’t own up to it but he didn’t deny it, so I moved right along. I held up my clipboard. “I’m a former colleague of Pete Wolinsky’s.”

Again, no verbal response but his complexion shifted, white patches appearing on a ground of pink. His mouth must have been dry because he licked his lips. I hoped the man wasn’t a serious poker player because I could see now he might be a textbook study in physiological tells. “You knew Pete was killed?”

“I read about it in the papers. Too bad.”

“Terrible,” I said. That out of the way, I went on. “His wife asked me to go through his business files for tax purposes and I came across his report. I wonder if you could answer some questions.”

He shook his head. “I can’t help. I don’t have anything to say.”

“But you were a client of his.”

“Um, no. Not really. I mean, I knew him and we talked a couple of times, but that was it. More like friends.”

Baffling, wasn’t it? I looked down at the paper on my clipboard and allowed that little crease to form between my eyes. “According to his records, he collected approximately . . . I can’t read his writing here. It looks like two thousand dollars, which you paid him to follow your wife . . .”

He glanced over his shoulder and then eased out the door.

I leaned sideways and peered over his shoulder. “Oh, wow. Is she home?”

“No, she’s out. I don’t want to talk about this. My wife doesn’t know anything and I’d just as soon she not find out.”

“Is she at work?”

“She quit her job, if it’s any business of yours. She’s off at the supermarket. Look, I’ll tell you what I can, but you have to be gone by the time she gets back.”

“Then we better be quick about it. In Reno, she met twice with a man named Owen Pensky. I gather he’s an old high school friend. Do you have any idea what they talked about?”

Lines appeared on Willard’s forehead, and his upper lip lifted toward one side of his nose. “You said this was for tax purposes. I don’t understand the relevance.”

“Don’t ask me. I can’t begin to guess why the IRS is looking into it.”

“The IRS?”

“This Pensky fellow might be the focus of their investigation. I really have no idea. Pete was obviously concerned enough to make a note of it.”

“Well, yes. That was partly my doing. When she got back from Reno, she started shutting herself in the bedroom, making long-distance calls. When I told him about it, he thought there might be a problem.”

“Good guess on his part,” I remarked. I looked at him without comment, creating a small stretch of silence.

Willard shifted his weight. “So what happened was, he overheard a phone conversation between Mary Lee and Owen Pensky . . .”

“How’d he manage that?”

“What?”

“How could Pete overhear a phone conversation? I’m not following.”

He adjusted his crutches and stepped back. “I don’t think I should say anything more. Maybe someone else can help.”

“Wait,” I said. “Hold on. I’m probably out of line here, Mr. Bryce, but in my past association with Pete, there were occasions when he employed a phone bug. Any chance of that here? Because if you gave your consent, you may be facing a serious legal issue.”

“I didn’t consent. I was against it. I didn’t like the idea at all, but he said if there was something going on, we might as well know the truth.”

“So you’re saying he recorded a private conversation.”

“He might have without me knowing it.”

“You didn’t hear the tape yourself?”

“No way. I paid him and that’s the last I saw of him.”

“What happened to the tape?”

“He kept it, I guess . . . if there was one.”

“I got that already. ‘If there was one,’ where is it?”

“He didn’t say anything more about it.”

“He dropped the matter?” I said, my tone incredulous.

“Yes.”

“He let it go and that was the end of it? You’re talking about Pete Wolinsky, is that correct? Because I can promise you Pete never let anything go if there was money to be made.”

“Well, there was this other idea he had. He thought she might have something at work. You know . . . like in her desk—letters or something—so he came up with this plan to go into the lab using her employee badge, which I was supposed to give him.”

This was unexpected. I studied him with interest. “Really. When was this?”

“August 24, but she turned in her notice that day, so all of a sudden it wasn’t any big deal. She quit and that was the end of it. I don’t think she’s talked to Pensky since.”

I said, “Ah.”

“I was sick of the whole thing by then anyway. I figured Pete was feeding me a line of bull and I got tired of playing along.”

“What was your last contact with him?”

“The next morning. I guess he slept in his car all night because the minute Mary Lee went off to work, he was knocking at my door, all rude and aggressive about why hadn’t I handed over her ID. I fired him right then.”

“And that night he was shot to death.”

Willard lifted a hand in protest. “Oh, no. No, no. It wasn’t that night, was it?”

“The twenty-fifth.”

“No connection there. None whatsoever.”

I stared. “I want to talk to your wife.”

“You can’t do that.”

“She and Owen Pensky had a subject under discussion and she’s the only one who knows what it was. Well, no, that’s not quite true. Pensky knew, of course. And Pete knew, didn’t he?”

“How would I know what Pete knew? Now get away from here. I don’t have to talk to you. I only did this to be nice. You have no reason to bother my wife. You want to know what they talked about, call Pensky and ask him.”

“Good idea. I may do that, but I should warn you, if I don’t get answers from him, I’ll be talking to her.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I don’t need your permission, Mr. Bryce, so if there’s anything you want to ’fess up to, I’d suggest you do it soon.”

I took out a business card, slid it into his shirt pocket, and gave it a pat.

• • •

I drove home in a state of suspended animation. I was sorry to learn Mary Lee had quit her job, because she’d no longer have access to sensitive information. By the same token, maybe now that she was free as a bird, she’d be happy to blow the whistle on Reed. If Pete had overheard a discussion about the trial or the patients Reed had lost, it would have put him in the perfect position to collect.

At my desk again, I pulled Pete’s cardboard box into view and removed the lid. His tape recorder was still wedged in at one end where I remembered last seeing it. I removed it from the box and set it on the desk in front of me. I flipped open the lid and checked the cassette he’d left in place. I could see the bulk of the tape had progressed from the left spindle to the right side of the cassette. I pressed rewind and watched the spindles go round and round until they came to a stop.

I closed my eyes briefly, wondering if there were truly angels up in heaven. Only one way to find out . . .

I pressed play.

The first conversation I picked up was clearly unrelated to my interests. It dawned on me, too late of course, that I should have made a note of where the tape was before I’d so blithely run it back. I played and stopped my way through fifty minutes of other people’s business, some of which was downright embarrassing. Finally, I heard a woman’s voice and a phrase or two that made my ears perk up. Again, I had to back-and-forth until I caught the beginning of the segment.

The sound quality was decent, but the recorder had picked up only half the conversation. A woman, sounding harried, said, “It’s me. I don’t have much time, so let’s make this quick. What’s happening on your end?”

Having never heard Mary Lee Bryce’s voice, I had no idea if I was hearing it now.

Her phonemate said something that the recorder didn’t pick up. Then she said, “Not yet. I know where they are. I just can’t get to them. I’m trying to track the one guy down but it’s tough. Can’t you use the information I already gave you?”

I heard nothing while the person she was talking to said a few words. I didn’t even know if it was a woman or a man. Guess it could have been a dog. Arf, arf.

“Owen, I know that! How do you think I spotted it in the first place? The pattern’s there. What I don’t have is proof. Meantime, I’m walking on eggshells . . .”

Ah, Owen Pensky and Mary Lee Bryce. How lovely to have you here. Carry on.

She said, “I hope not. You don’t understand how ruthless he is. It’s fine as long as I’m in the lab, but I can’t get anywhere near the clinic.”

A question from Owen.

Her reply: “The lab’s in Southwick. The clinic’s in the Health Sciences Building.”

I stopped the tape and scribbled as much as I remembered. I pressed play again. This was like a two-character radio drama. Mary Lee to Owen, Owen to Mary Lee, except that his comments were a blank. She might have been talking to herself.

“Because that’s where the subjects are seen for follow-up.”

Whatever Owen said in answer was met with derision: “Oh, right,” said she. “Talk about a red flag.”

And a moment later, “I figured you’d appreciate the finer points.”

There was an exchange about a journal published in Germany.

I listened, squinting, but couldn’t see the relevance, so I moved past that bit and concentrated on the next.

Mary Lee said, “‘Too bad’ is right. What he’s doing here is worse. With the grant he got, he can’t afford to fail.”

Silence.

“Nuhn-uhn. He has no clue I’m onto him. Otherwise, he’d have found a way to get rid of me before now. I mentioned his ripping me off because it’s indicative of his . . .”

I stopped the tape again and wrote down what I’d heard. My Aunt Gin had refused to let me take secretarial courses in high school and I was royally pissed off about it now. If I’d been able to take shorthand, I could have made quick work of this. I pressed play again. I missed a garbled sentence or two, but I could have sworn she’d mentioned Glucotace.

“I have his password, but that’s it so far.”

Owen responded, silently.

“It was written on a piece of paper in his desk drawer. How’s that for clever?”

Again, a pause for her response.

“Because I saw the printout before he shredded it.”

I pressed stop and play until I heard her say, “Not Stupak’s, Linton’s. These guys are always circling the wagons. Any hint of trouble, they close ranks. Shit. Gotta go. Bye.”

I could see how the deal had gone down. Pete had persuaded Willard to plant a pen mike and this is what it had netted him. If the call had been recorded with a phone bug, both sides of the conversation would have been audible. As for the content, he must have recognized the value of what he’d heard. Given the way his mind worked, how could he not? That’s when he must have done his homework, picking up background on Linton Reed and information on Glucotace. I assumed he set up an appointment with Reed afterward so the two could have a cozy heart-to-heart talk.

What I couldn’t see was where I might go with this. Linton Reed was wily. He was a cool customer and all he had to do was sit tight. Whatever he’d been up to at work, he was never going to be caught out. If Pete was onto him and had hit him up for money, how would the facts come to light? Pete was dead. The tape would never be admissible in a court of law. Now what?