Death at the Diner

                                          Photo: Silver Diner

No one had seen Walt Clayton carry on like this in 30 years. Coughing hoarsely at the tail end of a raucous belly laugh, he slapped his roommate on the shoulder, recovered from his coughing fit, and launched into a second round of boisterous merrymaking. 

". . . So my son Harry tells me, 'I hit her back . . . first!'" Walt gasped, concluding his anecdote regarding a dispute between his two offspring when they were little. Walt paused to down the remainder of his zinfandel.


Breslin Matthews responded with a grin, and followed suit by draining his libation of choice, a merlot. "That's funny," the 82 year-old remarked. "but I like the story about your son slapping that fat broad on the ass when you were behind her in the supermarket."

This last comment drew the stern gaze of Tonya Stone, head of the recreation department at the nursing home and the person in charge of organizing the monthly excursions to the nearby Falcon Diner. "Walt, how many glasses of wine have you had?" she asked.

"Two, I think," Walt muttered, accidentally tipping over the nearly-empty fourth round.

"You're flagged," she informed him.

Walt didn't care. He was enjoying himself too much. And for the first time in his six-and-a-half years at Sycamore Glen, he liked his roommate. Well, for the second time. Medford Cappelli, who had been there for three months recuperating from knee replacement surgery, had saved Walt's life. Walt had occasional nightmares about the murderous Dr. Medea Kouros with her deadly syringe. But that was another story. 

Breslin signaled the waiter for a refill. Ten minutes later, his glass remained empty. "Where is that kid with my drink?" he said to Walt.

"Give him a break, Bres," Walt replied. He surveyed the other octogenarians -eight women and two men- assembled at the table. The sight of this less-than-lively crew suddenly sobered him up. "He has ten other . . . zombies to take care of."

89 year-old Harley Hartz, who was seated on Breslin's left, glared at Walt for a second before relapsing into a semi-comatose state. Meanwhile, Edna Fricker, across from Walt, began shrieking "Where is my trombone?" As Tonya attempted to calm the frantic woman, a waitress set a drink in front of Breslin. Instinctively, Breslin reached for the glass, downed half of its contents, made a face, and set the glass back on the table. Harley stirred at this, about as noticeably as a blade of grass bending in the wind.


On the way back to the nursing home, Walt looked out the window of the van yearningly as the geriatric caravan passed familiar landmarks. Then he lowered his eyes as if embarrassed by what he was about to say.

"I haven't had much luck with my seven previous roommates," he told Breslin, who was seated next to him. "None of them lasted long, and I never liked any of them. Except one. I guess the fact that they weren't around long was good, but not really, since their replacements were just as annoying." Walt sighed. "Two of them were murdered. I told you that, right?"

Walt looked at his roommate, wondering if Breslin was listening. Breslin wasn't listening. He was dead.

Number nine was insufferable, as most of his predecessors had been. Because of the voluble Dick Beltrane, Walt had read the same paragraph four times in the Tom Clancy paperback that he was trying to finish. Walt sat facing the window, which looked out on the parking lot, a 40-watt lamp behind him, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He was doing his best to ignore the continuous flow of verbiage, without much success.

". . . this Breslow fellow just died like that," Dick rambled, referring to the late Breslin. "Of course, anyone can go on any given day. My nephew Earl dropped dead of a heart attack at 40! Right in the restaurant, just like Benson. Poor Earl went face-first into his bowl of tomato soup. His wife thought he'd drowned. 'Course no one drowns that fast. Maybe Brendan shouldn't have mixed his drinks. That could've caused his ticker to go out. Two merlots and a cabernet sauvignon."

Walt lowered his book and spun his wheelchair around, facing his effusive roommate. "Will you shut the hell up?"

Dick was stunned, but silenced. For the moment. 

A thought occurred to Walt. He asked Dick "Did you say two merlots . . . and a cabernet sauvignon?"

"Yes," Dick replied. "That's what Melvin, the van driver told me, and he heard it from the waitress. But maybe that had nothing to do with it. He could've been drinking sangria and port, or two ales and then a light beer, or maybe it was that grilled salmon that he was eating. You can never tell-"

"That's all I wanted to know," Walt said. "Thanks. Now you can shut the hell up."

If Walt thought that brutal frankness was the remedy to his roommate's verbal diarrhea, he was mistaken. His less-than-civil request had a laxative effect on Dick's vocal cords. Within five minutes, Dick launched into a lecture about the health benefits of hot prune juice. Walt made his escape, seeking asylum in the first floor lounge. 

The dark quiet of the lounge was a welcome change from Walt's chatty chamber mate. The flickering monitor of the 72-inch flat screen TV was the only light source in the 40-by 60-foot room, and the volume on the set was turned down to an almost inaudible level. At a table in the back of the lounge three old ladies were congregated, one of them eating a cup of vanilla yogurt. Parked in front of the TV was Harley Hartz. Walt situated himself next to Harley and feigned interest in the program. 

"Hello, Harley," Walt said.

"Hello, Stu," Harley replied.

"It's Walt."

Harley looked at him. "Who's Walt?" 

"I am. You called me Stu."

"Who's Stu?"

"I don't know," Walt replied. 

"Whaddaya want then?"

"Nothing," Walt said.

After a few minutes, Walt tried again, "Interesting program, huh?"

"I hate it," Harley said.

"Yeah," said Walt. "So do I."

Harley opened up at this, the pair's mutual disdain for reality shows providing the impetus for further conversation. Soon, the two were swapping gripes about the excessive number of police and legal dramas, the banality of TV tabloids, and the crudeness of modern sitcoms. 

"You'd never hear the Beaver talk like that," Harley said.

"That's for sure," Walt agreed.

Unbeknownst to Walt or Harley, one of the women in the back of the room had been inching closer, propelling her scooter in one-or two-foot spurts every couple of minutes. Finally, her silhouette darkened the monitor as she poked the manual channel button with a shaky finger, causing the bare-chested campers in the Australian Bush to morph into a pregnant meteorologist wearing a bright yellow maternity dress.

Apparently, Harley preferred complaining about a particular program to changing the channel, and protested vehemently. A convoluted argument ensued, with the woman warning Harley that she would report him to her grandfather, who was the principal, and Harley retorting that her grandfather "couldn't play football to save his life." Finally his adversary retreated back into the shadows, while Harley began shouting that he was the founder and president, and no one could force him to resign. Then in a soft voice, he lamented that he was all alone now that "Ellis" was gone and fell into a morose silence. To most listeners, this demonstration of dementia would have meant nothing. To Walt, it was significant.

Walt's son Harry fondly referred to his father as "a nice misanthrope," but that Walt disliked everyone was untrue. Only about half of the employees of Sycamore Glen had earned his disdain, while the rest he regarded with apathy. The two receptionists, Diana and Marsha, Walt liked, and frequently he could be found near the front desk, flirting with "the girls," both of whom were in their fifties. This particular morning, Walt had some questions for Marsha. In Walt's experience, conversational inquiries elicited more informative responses than interrogational ones, so he chose his words carefully. 

At 10:17 a.m., Walt rolled outside through the sliding glass doors and situated himself about 20 feet from the front entrance. He pretended to read the latest issue of Mystery Quest Magazine while surreptitiously looking around him. Satisfied that no one was within earshot, Walt withdrew his cell phone from his shirt pocket and called his old pal, Ron White. Ron was one of three people who visited Walt regularly, aside from Walt's son Harry, and Walt's brother, Arnold. Ron was a retired Philadelphia Police inspector.

Ron listened patiently to his friend's request before replying, "I'm going to hang up now, Walt."

"Wait a minute, Ron!" Walt shouted. "Remember when my roommate, George Pendleton, fell and cracked his skull on the toilet rim? Everyone assumed that it was an accident, but I found out that some of the workers were wagering on which residents would die every month."

Ron remembered. One of the aides who had bet on George had attempted to cheat by giving him a little push. If not for Walt, he would have gotten away with murder.

"And last year, this place was transitioning from a nursing home to a rehab facility, but first they had to wait until all of us died. The new CEO hired that psycho lady doctor to speed up the attrition process. She killed four people, including my roommate, and she almost killed me. So tell me, Ron: am I just a crazy old man?"

"Okay, Walt," Ron acknowledged.  "You're a regular Ironside. But why are you suspicious about this one?"

"Because," Walt replied. "I don't think that Breslin was the target."

"What do you mean 'target?' He had a heart attack."

"Don't be so sure," Walt said.

"Walt, I've been retired for twenty years, and I was in Philadelphia, not Montgomery County. But I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Ron."

"One more thing, Walt."

"What's that?"

"You're still a crazy old man."

Smiling, Walt flipped the cell phone cover closed.

Sometimes a face, a voice, a scent or a place will evoke a vague familiarity, one that coalesces into recognition with the passage of time. For Walt, this phenomenon occurred a week after his conversation with Ron, during breakfast, when one of the aides brought him a cup of orange juice. At that moment, Walt was eating a bland batch of scrambled eggs and listening to the radio, which he had managed to turn up to a volume that just exceeded that of Dick. A tall, skinny young man with a crew cut, bleach-blond hair and a heart tattoo on one arm placed the brimming plastic cup on Walt's tray. The brown roots under the server's dyed hair were faintly visible.

He noticed Walt staring at him, and smiled politely in return. Walt forced a reciprocal smile. He read the name tag on the starched white shirt. Jason Warner. For Walt, the passage of time elapsed later that evening, when the residents who could were slumbering, and a skeleton crew manned the work stations. Walt had just entered the fuzzy limbo between waking and sleep when the recognition hit him like a smack in the face. Opening his eyes, he shouted, "The Falcon Diner!" Embarrassed, he wondered if anyone had heard him. He soon had his answer.

"Little too early for breakfast," Dick's voice cut through the darkness. "and too late for supper. But if you're hungry, you should pull that little white cord to the right of your bed and tell them that you're a diabetic and that you have to have food or you'll go into shock. How can they tell if you're bluffing? The night crew doesn't know you from Adam-"

"Dick," Walt interjected.

"Shut the hell up?"

"You got it."

"Walt, hello," Ron answered. "I was just going to call you."

"What did you find out, Ron?" 

Ron supplied a brief biography of Harley Hartz. Born 1923. Graduated Central High in Philadelphia in 1941. After a stint in the army, went to college on the GI Bill and earned a BS in Business Administration. Married Megan McClure in 1957. One son, Ellis, born in 1958, was killed in a car accident in 1993. Megan died in 1992. 

"Is that all?" 

"No," Ron said. "In 1970, Hartz founded H. H. Life and Casualty Corporation. By 1980, they employed 1,600 people and had assets of $360 million. The firm was bought by an outfit in Michigan in 2001. At that time, Hartz's personal net worth was north of $5 million."

"Marsha told me that he used to own some big company," Walt said. "That much dough, even with the nursing home taking, say, $4,500 a month, would pay for his upkeep here for . . . " Walt did some calculations. "93 years! Then they'd start taking his Social Security. Somebody doesn't want to wait that long."

Ron didn't see why Harley's wealth would make him the target of an assassination attempt, as he had no surviving heirs. When Walt suggested that someone might have had a grudge against Ellis, Ron replied that whoever might have should have acted on it before 1999.

Walt tried a final pitch. "Harley must have a will! Find out who his executor is!"

But Ron had had enough. "Walt, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I don't think your roommate died because of some murder plot that backfired. He had a heart attack, and it had nothing to do with Harley Hartz."

"But I saw the kid from the diner!" Walt insisted. "It can't be a coincidence. He's here now, at the nursing home. He dyed his hair, but it's the same guy. He's gonna try again."

"Lay off the Sherlock Holmes stories, Walt."

"I've already read the Sherlock Holmes stories! I'm reading Tom Clancy now!" 

"Walter Edward Clayton!" a husky female voice announced.

Walt looked up sheepishly, half-expecting to see his late mother. Instead he saw head nurse Stacey Quinn. She faced Walt, arms folded.

"What are you shouting about?"

"I was talking to my friend Ron. He's hard of hearing."

Stacey shook her head, and without responding, turned and walked out of the room. Within seconds Dick rolled across the threshold in his wheelchair, and asked Walt the same question. 

"I wasn't shouting," Walt said.

In addition to Walt's cell phone, for which his daughter Molly paid, he had a phone in his room. But for the call that he was about to make, Walt decided on the former. This time he went outside and rode to the wooden gazebo in the back of the building. Immediately Walt wished that he had worn a sweater or a light jacket. He resolved to do this as quickly as possible. Dialing 411, he waited.

"City and state?" came the computerized voice.


"Milford Pond," Walt answered.

"Did you say 'Monterrey?" 

"Milford Pond," Walt repeated, then added "Pennsylvania."

"What listing?"

"The Falcon Diner."

"Did you say 'The Fat Recliner?'"

"No, the Falcon Diner."

But the automated operator wouldn't cooperate. "The Fallen Miner, right?'

"Look, lady! It's cold out here!" Walt growled.

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand that. Please hold for an operator."

Walt ground his dentures while he waited for a human being. Finally he got a real person on the other end, and the phone number he wanted.

"Falcon Diner."

"Hello," Walt replied, with as much composure as he could muster. "This is Paul Warner. I'm trying to reach my nephew Jason . . . Is he working today? . . . I see . . . It's important that I speak with him . . . His aunt Regula is very sick . . . Would you? That's 
great . . . 215-667-1213 . . . Thanks so much!"

Stuffing his cell phone back into his shirt pocket, Walt headed around the building, his wheelchair on maximum speed. "215-667-1213. 215-667-1213," he said.

Walt barreled through the front entrance, repeating his numerical mantra. He didn't notice Stacey Quinn until he nearly bumped into her, causing her to lose her balance and drop the huge jar of applesauce that she was carrying to the dining hall. Stacey seethed for about ten seconds, then surveyed the globs of applesauce and shards of glass on the floor.

"Walt!" she screamed. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

Walt turned bright red. In a tiny voice he replied, "215-667-1213?"

While previous repercussions for Walt's transgressions had consisted mainly of  reprimands, the apple sauce incident resulted in the sternest punishment to date. His motorized wheelchair was confiscated, relegating Walt to manual propulsion in a portable model. And even worse, Walt was forbidden to go outside without staff supervision. These measures would be in effect for two weeks. 

But the draconian punishment did little to deter Walt from his mission. Seizing the opportunity that afternoon when the nurse's station was unattended, Walt laboriously made his way around the counter and picked up the telephone receiver. He pushed the buttons quickly and nervously, at the same time thinking what he would do if one of the nurses returned and caught him. He had no clue.

Ringing on the other end. A click. An answering machine. Damn it!

". . . reached Jason and Ellis. Please leave your name and number after the beep . . ."   

"Ellis!" Walt said.


"Walt!"

Stacey!

Hanging up the phone, Walt fumbled for an excuse. Finally, he said "Somebody told me that my father was on the line."

Stacey frowned. "Your father's dead."

"I know," Walt replied. "That's why it was so unbelievable, I had to find out!"

"Get away from my desk, and get back to your room!" Stacey told him.

Walt did. But he had no intention to give up. He was convinced that Harley Hartz's life was in danger. And Walt owed it to Breslin to get to the truth. From his room phone he called Ron again. 

"You've reached Ron and Shirley White . . ."

This time Walt left a message.

Two of the longest days in Walt's 80 years went by. He had almost relaxed, almost decided that maybe he was imagining some macabre plot. Harley was still alive. The world was still turning. Dick was still babbling.

  " . . . and I told my daughter that of course I remembered! I'm not senile yet, like most of the folks here. I figure that I have at least another ten years left because I only drink decaf and I watch what I eat and I move my bowels at least twice a day. And the doctor 
says . . ."

Walt spotted Harley across the room, seated alone at a table in the corner.  A short, burly man of about 35 was pouring him a cup of coffee. The server proceeded to two adjacent tables, doling out the hot beverage to four other residents. Walt sprung into action. Gripping the wheels with both hands, he backed away from the table, leaving Dick to his own ramblings, and feverishly rolled towards Harley. 

"Harley, no!" Walt shouted. 

Everyone in the dining hall paused and gazed in shock at the crazed little man in the wheelchair, who was halfway across the room and panting from exhaustion. At last reaching his destination, Walt knocked Harley's coffee over with a sweep of his hand. Then with amazing alacrity, he spun his chair around and proceeded to do the same with the cups on the two other tables. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" the server demanded.

Pointing at him, Walt said, "Assassin! You would poison all these people just to get at one man! Just like your buddy Jason poisoned Breslin. You son of a bitch."

While Walt was catching his breath, several staff members had assembled next to him, including Nancy, the office manager, Stacey and Tonya. Then Walt noticed his friend, Ron White.

"Walt," Ron said calmly. "I did some checking up after I heard your last message. The police arrested Jason Warner this morning, along with his roommate, Ellis Milton."

"Ellis!" Harley gasped. Then he added, "Milton?"

"Yes," Ron said. "He's your grandson, Mr. Hartz."

"Then who's this guy?" Walt asked, glancing at the stranger with the coffee pot.

"This is Dave Plimpton," Stacey answered. "He normally has Mondays off, but I asked him to fill in today."

Walt was beyond mortification. He looked at the overturned cups and the puddles of coffee dripping from the tables onto the floor. Finally he extended his hand to the bewildered Dave.

"Walt Clayton."

The knock on his door roused Walt from his light slumber. Shaking his head to clear the vestiges of sleep, Walt sat up in his wheelchair, causing the paperback in his lap to slide onto the floor.

"Bored with Tom Clancy, Dad?" asked Harry.

Walt smiled. "Harry!"

Harry bent down and picked up Hunt For Red October, then set the book on the dresser. Sitting on Walt's bed, Harry faced his father and asked "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, same as always," Walt replied. 

"So what tipped you off, Dad?"

"Cabernet sauvignon," Walt explained. When Harry looked baffled, Walt elaborated. "Breslin was drinking merlot. For him to switch to cabernet sauvignon made no sense. The waitress mistakenly set Harley's drink next to Breslin, not aware that Jason Warner had laced it with aconite."

"Aconite?" Harry said.

"It's a nerve toxin that comes from the root of the wolfsbane plant. Ellis Milton was a chemistry major at Terra Nova University. When he found out that his rich grandfather was at Sycamore Glen, he thought up a nearly flawless plot. His roommate, Jason, would do the dirty work, and Ellis would compensate him."

Harry was confused. "I thought Ellis was dead." 

  "He is," Walt replied. "and he isn't! Harley's son Ellis had an extra-marital affair with a Linda Milton. After Ellis died, Linda found out that she was pregnant. She named the kid Ellis."

"So Jason took a job at the diner just so that he could kill Hartz?" Harry asked.

"Exactly."

Both men were silent for a long while. Then Harry said, "You need something to brighten up this place. A painting or two. Maybe a poster. Or a plant! I think a cactus would fit your personality," Harry ribbed his father. "Maybe you have some suggestions?"

"Can you believe this weather? Rained all day Saturday, overcast on Sunday and Monday, and today not a cloud in the sky! I was just outside for an hour and let me tell you, it's beautiful. Walt, you're not still grounded, are you?"

Dick had entered the room, preceded by his voice. Walt looked at Harry.  

"Wolfsbane," he said.