Beatrice Young 7- The Paw-sitively Cheerful Poisoner Page 3
Beatrice watched the cats mess about in the gardens, trying to distract herself. The cats seemed to have no concern in the world. All they wanted to do was play and eat and have fun and solve mysteries. She envied them for that.
As if sensing her stress, Petunia came waddling up, her fluffy cream tail waving in the air seductively, her bright blue eyes fixed upon her owner. Bee picked her up and cradled her like a baby, kissing her on her brown button nose. The Himalayan had come into her life not so long ago thanks to one of her cases. It was like having a little teddy bear. It was hard to take her seriously sometimes, she was such an awful flirt, but she was always there when you needed her and that was always a great comfort.
Bee decided she should head indoors and went into the great lodge. An old structure—a hundred or more years old—it used to be a hunting lodge and retreat for the wealthy. It was more modest now but still impressive. Beatrice let the waiter guide her to a table in front of the floor–to–ceiling glass windows. The ceiling was lofty and the great beams stretched across it, supporting the grand structure. There was a great brick fireplace that, for once, wasn’t active thanks to the warmth of the day. Antlers and the heads of various beasts decorated the walls; the tablecloths were white linen. There was a hush over the place as if it were a library. The waiters glided about as if on skates.
The waiter seated her at a table with another woman who looked like another version of Ann. She was very plain with a round face and she had short hair and stubby fingers. There was a practical, measured look about her—the look of someone who is perfectly competent, capable, and calm at all the right moments. Beatrice swallowed her excitement. There were so many questions she wanted to ask.
4
“I’m so glad you were able to see me in person,” Beatrice said after they had ordered.
“Well, I’m retired now. I have my time all to myself. And I’ve been meaning to visit Ashbrook for some time. I’ve actually booked a room in the lodge for the weekend, just to give myself a treat.”
The waiter glided over with their sparkling water. She would have preferred a glass of wine but she figured that since she was on duty she should probably keep a straight head. The cats played on the porch outside—the lodge had a strict ‘no cats indoors’ policy.
“So were you and Ann close in nursing school?” Beatrice asked.
“Not really. I was never part of her band of admirers. And she had many. She was smart and our professors loved her, thought her incredibly capable. But I was always sceptical about Ann. She seemed to have this desire to … experiment.”
Beatrice frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She was always talking about how patients would react if you gave them a little more of this, or a little more of that. She seemed to treat her patients like lab rats. Everyone else passed it off as simple curiosity. But, I know for a fact that she did far more than talk.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I was partnered with her during our practicum. We were placed at Manchester General and worked together closely. Ann had a particular fascination with morphine and atropine. Morphine, as you may know, eases pain. Slows the body down. Atropine does the opposite: it gets the body going again.”
“What’s atropine used for exactly?”
“Speeds up the heart rate. Used to be used to treat cardiac arrest. It’s not so favored anymore, though it can help treat some kinds of poisonings—usually from insecticides and nerve gases. But when Ann and I were in medical school atropine was pretty common. It was even included in international resuscitation guidelines.”
“And Ann used these two drugs?”
“She did. She was fascinated with how patients would react to different doses of each. She used to tell me, before she learned to be more guarded, that the people she dealt with were already very ill and that they were most likely going to die. She thought her role was to make that passing easier.”
“So basically she wanted to play God.”
“Exactly. But the professors and the doctors at the hospital never picked up on it. Her reputation preceded her. And she was smart enough to only experiment on the very ill.”
“And you saw this?” Beatrice asked unbelievingly. “With your very eyes?”
“I caught her on multiple occasions. She would inject patients with morphine or atropine when it wasn’t on their charts to get it. She just laughed it off, said that she was trying to help them. I tried reporting her to our supervisor but I didn’t have any evidence, and she was so well–loved they didn’t believe me anyway. Ann stopped confiding in me and she kept her distance as much as possible. After we graduated we never worked together again.”
Beatrice was felt frozen in place, horrified. The waiter brought salads with fresh greens and salmon. They were both silent as he made sure they had everything they needed.
“And the patients she treated, when she was a resident, did they die?” Beatrice whispered as soon as the waiter had left.
Betty grimaced. “They did. But it’s hard to tell whether it was from Ann’s interference or if it was natural. I believe it was a combination of the two, that she helped them along.”
“There’s a lot more here than I was bargaining for,” Beatrice said, trying to digest this shocking information. “Betty, do you know anything about Ann’s early life?”
She shook her head. “Ann never talked about her family or her childhood. Which to me, speaks for itself. It couldn’t have been great.”
“I’m going to have to take a trip to Manchester, aren’t I? Well, I suppose it will give me the chance to scope out all the new coffee shops. Get some inspiration.”
They finished their salads, talking about this and that, but Beatrice was too focused on the task ahead to pay much attention. She needed to coerce someone to go on a road trip with her. The minute their meals were finished, Beatrice drove right over to Matthew’s house. He opened the door for her, surprised. Usually he came over to her home, not the other way around.
Matthew had a modest single floor house just outside of Ashbrook on a country road. He had a couple of acres of property but the place had a slightly unkempt look. Matthew was not much of a gardener, nor had he bothered to fix up his house much, typical bachelor that he was.
Still, the place was cozy on a chilly spring night. She followed him into the cramped kitchen and sat down at the table. The cats disappeared, revelling in the rare chance to explore Matt’s house. He filled an old cast–iron kettle with water from the tap, then lit the old gas stove with a match. Blue flames shot up and there was the quiet hissing noise of gas flowing.
“Tea not wine?” Beatrice asked.
“I’m trying to watch my alcohol consumption. Going to get a potbelly.”
“And who are you trying to look good for?” she teased.
“You, of course,” he said winking at her. “I don’t want you to think I’m just some old geezer.”
Beatrice blushed. “You’re in better shape than most men half your age.”
“You flatter me.” He busied himself with preparing the tea. Beatrice watched his back with mounting anger. He hadn’t said anything about the two of them since Valentine’s Day. Had he decided to never mention it again? Was he going to pretend like he’d never professed his feelings for her? Even worse, had those feelings gone away somehow over the course of the last few weeks?
“When are you going to ask me out on a date?” she blurted out, unable to keep silent any longer.
Matthew turned around slowly, looking at her as if she’d asked him if he’d like to shake hands with a snake. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. A date. You asking me. When?” Beatrice clasped her hands in front of her. “I don’t need anything special. You could take me out for dinner. Not at some dive, mind you. I mean, it should be a nice dinner. I’ve really been craving lobster lately…”
Matthew crossed his arms. The kettle whistled behind him. “I thought we decided to be friends.”
“I tend to take you at your word, seeing as we’re not in grade school anymore,” Matthew said, with an amused expression on his face. “Fine, I’ll take you on a date.”
“Fine? Fine! Oh it’s that easy is it? One minute you act like just being friends is fantastic. The next minute you’re all like, I suppose I could take you on a date Beatrice, you old bag. My, you really know how to charm a lady.”
Matthew sighed and used a dish towel to take the screaming kettle off the burner, which he shut off at the same time. He put tea bags in the mugs and then poured water over them in silence. It was a heavy silence, a chastening silence that made Beatrice wonder if, perhaps, she was being a little dramatic.
“Or maybe you could just go to Manchester with me this weekend,” she said in a small voice.
He still didn’t turn around. “Odd choice for a romantic date.”
“I have to do a bit of sleuthing. Find out about Ann’s background. Get the whole picture and all that jazz. Really dig deep. I guess that’s what a real sleuth would do.”
“A lady sleuth?” Matthew teased. The local paper often cited her as their local ‘lady sleuth,’ a moniker that Beatrice detested. Still, Beatrice was relieved that he was back to teasing her again.
“Exactly. I’ll even wear my high heels and a spritz of perfume.”
“That really does sound like a date.” Matthew set the tea before her and squeezed her shoulder at the same time. She reached back and put her hand over his, briefly, silently asking for forgiveness for her outburst.
He sat down next to her, his steaming cup set before him. “So what’s the latest on Ann?”
Beatrice told him everything about her conversation with Betty. “So you see, I’m not crazy,” she said defiantly. “Ann definitely has a patchy history.”
Matthew turned his mug in his hands. “You think you can trust what Betty says?”
“Only one way to find out: I need to talk to more people who know Ann. Plus, if she really grew up in Manchester I want to see records. After that whole thing with the mayor, it’s not hard to believe that people will go to extraordinary lengths to cover up who they really are.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind getting out of town,” Matthew said. “You’re paying for lunch.”
Beatrice grinned. “Perfect. I’ll find out where the records office is. But, the thing we really need is proof that Ann has been up to no good. I can’t ask the sheriff to get the bodies exhumed until we have some kind of evidence that she’s prone to sending people to eternal sleep.”
Matthew shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “It sounds impossible, but I know you’ve done it before.”
5
As Beatrice drove her pickup truck down the highway, the fresh spring air blasting through the open windows, she couldn’t help sneaking glances at Matthew. Were they actually going on a date? If so, it had to be the most unromantic date known to man—hunting down details of a potential poisoner’s past life in a musty records office
Still, Beatrice felt more than a little buoyed by the thought that Matthew hadn’t categorically rejected the idea of them going out on a date, even if he hadn’t greeted it with the unqualified enthusiasm she’d hoped for either.
Beatrice straightened her white blouse, which she hoped transmitted both serious sleuth and open to this being a date. She’d taken the trouble to blow out and straighten her long, wiry grey hair and even dab on a little red lipstick. Matthew, she’d noticed, kept glancing over at her too, which had to mean she either looked smashing or had gotten lipstick smeared on her face.
Lucky, Petunia, and Hamish were all in their own carriers that day, firmly strapped into the back. They’d been fighting more than usual lately and Beatrice didn’t want to have to police any tussles while driving.
The dense coniferous forests passed by in a blur underneath a bright blue sky filled with threads of cloud. The rolling hills revealed an occasional barn or old house but otherwise this stretch of road was deserted. Beatrice stuck an arm out the window as she drove with her right hand, feeling the cool air passing through her fingers.
“Do you remember when we were in high school?” she asked. “When we used to drive for hours because we had nothing else to do. No dances, no movies, no bookstore, nothing but a diner where everybody else went?”
Matthew smiled. “We’d listen to rock n’roll on the radio and sing our hearts out. Drive down all the old country roads no one used, stop in random places, go crashing through the woods and get all tangled up in the underbrush. Come out scratched like we’d been attacked by a flock of angry crows.”
Beatrice blushed, remembering the other things they’d done in that underbrush—probably the reason for all those scratches. “It’s a wonder we ever got our homework done.”
“Sometimes I think that was the happiest time of my life,” Matthew said, a dreamy look on his face.
She snapped around to look at him. “Really?”
“Well, other than when my children were born, sure. We were free. We had our whole lives ahead of us. And we had each other. Life was pretty simple in those days.”
Beatrice fixed her eyes on the road again. Funnily enough, she never thought about that time much. She was very much a ‘live in the present’ kind of gal—it was a way to stay sane. But as soon as her mind went back to those memories, she realized he was right.
“Well, I guess there’s nothing we can do but relive them. We may not have our entire lives ahead of us, but we’re definitely free. And we still have each other,” she said.
She felt Matthew reach over and take her hand. It rested on her leg and they drove in silence for a while, her hand in his, as she drove left–handed. It wasn’t hard to do, because Beatrice had practice—it wasn’t the first time that they’d held hands while driving, after all.
They rolled into Manchester just over an hour later. Brick and concrete high rises flanked the wide streets dotted with trees. Beatrice helped Matthew find the Bureau of Vital Records with the help of the map on her smartphone. It was located in an unassuming squat brick building on a side street not far from the main drag.
The office looked much like you’d expect a records bureau would look like—low false ceilings, buzzing fluorescent lights, and lots of particleboard furniture and metal file cabinets. There was a records room staffed by one lone volunteer who sat in a corner reading the local newspaper. The woman’s eyes brightened as soon as she saw them come in. It looked like Saturday wasn’t a popular day for either genealogy research or snooping on potential murderers.
“Can I help you?” she asked, folding up her newspaper. She was a tiny woman with a puff of short, white hair. Her eyes widened when she spotted the cats. “Oh, normally we don’t allow pets in here…” Hamish sauntered right up to her and rubbed against her leg, his eyes raised to hers winningly. She reached down tentatively and stroked his silky head. He began to purr audibly. “Well, I suppose no one will know if they’re here for a bit. Nobody else’s been through that door all day.”
Beatrice smiled at Hamish, thanking him silently. “We’re looking for the birth certificate of Ann Smith.”
The woman pushed up her glasses and frowned. “Well, that’s a common–enough name. Do you know what year she was born in?”
“I don’t,” Beatrice admitted. “But it’s got to date about forty to forty–five years ago.”
“We’ve got our work cut out for us, but I should be able to find your Ann Smith,” the woman replied eagerly.
It took all three of them a good part of the morning to sift through the records. By the end of it, Matthew was starting to look mutinous and even the eager volunteer had a distinct sheen of
sweat on her face. Beatrice, however, was like a cat that has seen a squirrel dash up a tree and won’t relent until the unfortunate animal has been cornered. She knew some clue to Ann’s beginnings existed in the endless rows of paper—if only she could stumble upon it.
They exhausted the records and while many Ann Smiths were identified, cross–checking them showed that these Anns were either deceased or married. Beatrice sat down in one of the plastic folding chairs, discouraged. “Perhaps she’s a lot older or younger than she looks?” she mumbled to herself. “I don’t understand.”
Hamish trotted past her, tail held aloft, as if he were the final battalion of an army charging in to do battle. He sat under the open filing cabinets, staring up at them as if the proper record might drift down and bless him with its presence.
Which it did, in a fashion. Hamish gave Lucky a meaningful look and the black cat sped over and jumped into an open filing cabinet. Hamish hastily pawed at the records that spilled out and, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, grabbed one neatly between his little needle teeth.
The volunteer gasped in horror at this blatant disregard for the sanctity of her files. But Beatrice knew Hamish’s abilities too well to be distracted by a little thing like a mess. She immediately seized the card and stared at it. “Ann Walker?” she murmured. “Who on earth is this?”
The volunteer peered over. “Heavens to Betsy! I know the mother listed here. It’s Susan Baker. I went to school with her. She married young and died young too, in a car accident. Left four kids with her husband. But that didn’t work out either. The man was a drinker and mighty strange too. A neighbor discovered him trying to saw off his own ears. Committed him, they did.”
Beatrice and Matthew stared at her, open–mouthed. “And the children?” Matt asked.
“Went to live with an aunt but from what I heard she didn’t have any money. Could barely afford to keep herself afloat, let alone four kids. My mother told me that they were put under state care. I’m not sure what happened to them after that.”