After reading the notice in the local paper, Walt Clayton entertained three possibilities: The entire thing was a gross mistake. Testing the first theory, he pinched himself on the cheek so hard that he winced. Then placing his hand on his chest, he felt his heart thumping. Number one was plausible. The second was that he was the butt of some cruel hoax. As the unofficial "detective" at Sycamore Glen Nursing Center, he had solved a string of murders over the past few years which resulted in numerous employees being incarcerated. Two was a viable theory. The third? That he was trapped in a sort of Twilight Zone reality. This he dismissed. But there was a fourth possibility.
Walt set the paper on his lap, and reached for the telephone on the nightstand by his bed. He punched in his son Harry's number.
"Hi, Dad," Harry answered. "How are you?"
"I don't know. But I must be worse than I feel."
"What're you talking about?"
"I just saw my obituary in the paper."
Walt read the death notice verbatim to an incredulous Harry, who admitted that he had written it during his father's severe bout with pneumonia last year, but had never, and he emphasized never, submitted anything.
"Is there a photo, Dad?"
"Yeah, there's a photo."
"Whose?"
"Mine, of course! Who the hell's do you think?"
Walt could almost feel Harry recoil at the opposite end of the receiver. But then with his wonted dry wit, Harry assured his father that he would look into the matter, which he called "a grave error."
Walt, too, responded to Harry's pun in his own inimitable style. He hung up.
Walt spun his motorized wheelchair around and drove into the hall, where he promptly encountered his garrulous roommate, Dick Beltrane, heading into their shared quarters. Walt figured that if he looked straight ahead and pretended not to notice Dick, he would be spared any conversation. He figured wrong.
Dick waved. "Howdy, roomie! How are you today?"
"Dead, apparently," Walt took not a little pleasure in responding. He sensed but didn't see Dick's bewildered expression. Also, the flippant answer seemed to silence Dick. Walt would have to remember that.
Harry showed up an hour later, the offending newspaper tucked under his arm. After conducting a brief investigation, he informed his father, Harry learned that his computer had been hacked, and a $350 charge for a "death notice" billed to his MasterCard. Walt listened intently.
"Any suspects?" he asked.
"About five or ten million."
Harry added that he had done the requisite damage control: calling the newspaper, then contacting his credit card company, and changing all of his Internet passwords.
"How about letting the relatives know that I'm not dead?"
Harry blanched. "Oh, crap."
A burning glance was all the reprimanding that Harry needed, Walt decided. Father and son then adjourned to the computer room on the first floor, where Harry promptly contacted as many family and friends as he could to dispel the rumors of Walt's demise.
Harry stood and turned to go. "I guess my work here is done."
Walt shook his head. "No it's not."
"What else do I need to do?"
"Log off the computer."
Seven years in a nursing home had convinced Walt that an active mind was the best counter to a descent into dementia. When he wasn't solving murders or reading about them, he tried to supplement his hungry intellect with lively conversation. This was distinctly different from the interminable babbling which his roommate would gladly provide. For the former, Walt stationed himself by the front desk and chatted with either Marsha or Diana, depending on which receptionist was on duty. Today both were out sick, replaced by an unsociable nurse who resented the temporary demotion.
Walt headed into the Community Room, where a group game of Trivial Pursuit was beginning. He parked his electric wheelchair next to that of 89 year-old Harley Hartz, whose life Walt had saved several months earlier. Harley's grandson, the product of an adulterous affair, had tried to collect Harley's sizeable inheritance before the nursing home took it all. With the help of a lifelong friend who was also a retired police officer, Walt had thwarted the plan.
Walt nodded to his erstwhile ward. "Hello, Harley."
Harley stared at him. "Do I know you?"
Walt's response was preempted by a question posed by Marilyn Martz, the newly-hired Social Services Director. Walt found her buoyant, bouncy demeanor annoying. Nonetheless, he answered the question.
"The Battle of the Bulge."
"That's right," Marilyn tweeted in a pitch that might have shattered the closest window. "The Germans' last major counteroffensive, in December of 1944, was the Battle of the Bulge!" Marilyn wrote Walt's name on a chalkboard behind her, and affixed a single tick mark.
Walt surveyed the crowd of 15. He saw two staffers, Glenda Hopkins and Chuck Prevette, sitting with the residents. Nothing unusual: employees frequently participated in the activities, ostensibly to bolster enthusiasm. Glenda was pretty good at Trivial Pursuit, but not as good as her coworker Ethan Flass. Last month, Ethan and Walt were tied, but Walt's knowledge of English Romantic poetry edged out the perspicacious dishwasher by a smidgeon. Today Ethan was nowhere in sight. Glenda, however, an LPN, also proved a formidable challenger. After a half hour of fielding questions, Walt found himself tied with her this time. Their closest competitor, Bob Hazleford, had a mere six points compared to their 12.
A question whose answer Walt guessed, in a category about which he knew virtually nothing, secured his victory.
"Knute Rockne?"
Marilyn's tiny frame raised on tiptoes as she squealed an enthusiastic affirmative.
"Right again, Walter! This legendary Notre Dame football coach was a player on the team in 1913 when the Fighting Irish beat Army for the first time ."
The chalkboard squeaked compliantly as Marilyn deftly administered the 13th tick under Walt's name.
"And today's winner is Walter Clayton!"
Walt frowned. He hated being called "Walter."
After supper that evening, Walt returned to his quarters to find a thrice-creased sheet of 8 ½" x 11" white paper on his bed. Unfolding the note, he read.
YOUR ROOMMATE IS THE DEAD MAN.
The use of the definite article "the" instead of YOUR ROOMMATE IS A DEAD MAN suggested to Walt that the culprit wanted to be clear who was being threatened. First Walt's phony obituary had appeared. Now Dick's life was being threatened. In his seven years at Sycamore Glen, Walt had lost three roommates to homicide.
I have to report this to somebody, Walt thought.
Dick's timing, as usual, was either perfect or the worst possible. Motoring into the room on his electric scooter, he immediately commenced chattering upon seeing Walt.
"Hi, Walt! Missed you at dinner again. Funny how we never seem to sit at the same table. Those red bliss potatoes were something special, wouldn't you agree? A little too much butter, but just right on the garlic this time. Did you like the fish?"
Or maybe not, Walt told himself.
Walt let his moral judgment supersede his dislike of his roommate and informed Nancy, the office manager, of the menacing missive. Walt had clashed with Nancy once after she downplayed an incident in which a speeding car had nearly run Walt over in the parking lot. Walt's astute detective work later implicated the new CEO of the nursing home's parent company, and the new head physician of Sycamore Glen, with the murder of four residents, including Walt's roommate. Their motive? Sycamore Glen had been transitioning from long-term care to short-term rehab, and the killers wanted to expedite the process. The parking lot episode had been an attempt to frighten Walt, Dr. Medea Kouros later confessed. This time Walt's "conspiracy theories" would have more credibility, he reasoned. Strike two.
"Walt, it's six-thirty," Nancy explained. "I'm supposed to be out of here at five."
"That's just great," Walt replied. "Maybe the person who wrote this note works the same hours."
A note didn't prove anything, Nancy argued. She pointed out that most bomb threats were hoaxes, and that this "silly little note" was hardly sufficient evidence to bring to the police.
"This isn't a bomb threat."
"It's the same principle."
Nancy hung her brown leather purse over her shoulder and grabbed her keys and cell phone from her desk.
"Besides," she added. "I thought that you didn't even like your roommate."
Walt's short fuse ignited and was instantly consumed. He shouted that he didn't like anyone there, least of all her, but that this was a matter of life and death. Then he broached the matter of the erroneous obituary.
Nancy's eyes flashed triumphantly. "You see? And you're not dead, are you?"
The next morning brought no inaccurate death notices nor morbid memos, but something more tangible and in Walt's opinion, even more insidious: a congealed mass of fried egg and two charred slices of rye toast. At least the prune juice was potable, Walt figured, and quickly drained his six-ounce portion. Then picking up the telephone receiver, he called Harry at work.
"ABC Financial. We put your money to work for you, so that when the day is through-"
"Yeah, Harry. It's Dad."
A frustrated silence. Then finally, "Dad, you cut me off. All employees are supposed to answer with the complete-"
"Oh, shut up, Harry!"
Again there was silence.
"Harry?" Walt prodded. "Say something."
"I thought you wanted me to shut up."
This response precipitated a few choice profanities from Walt, which in turn prompted a gentle admonition from Harry.
"Dad, these calls are recorded."
Harry couldn't see his father blush.
"Sorry," the elder Clayton muttered. Then clearing his throat, he asked, "Aside from yesterday, when was the last time that you visited me?"
"Last Tuesday," Harry replied. "Exactly one week ago."
"Thanks," Walt said, terminating the conversation.
Often, Walt could be found parked right outside the front doors of Sycamore Glen, reading some book or magazine in the detective or mystery genre. He had out of necessity curtailed his erstwhile tendency to wander away from what Nancy termed "the safety zone," deciding that a modicum of cooperation was better than losing his outdoor privileges. A day had passed since he had spoken to Harry. Glancing at his watch, he thought, Any minute now. And he was right.
"Hey, Pete," Walt called to a wiry, light-skinned black man who walked through the sliding glass doors. He stopped, a bit surprised, and adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, looked down at Walt.
"Hey, Walt. What's up?"
With a discreet hand gesture, Walt beckoned him to lean closer, and then whispered something barely audible. Pete recoiled, brushing imaginary dust off his blue maintenance uniform. He did, however, look with some interest at the wad of bills stuffed in Walt's left hand, poorly-concealed behind a worn copy of The Oxford Book of Detective Stories.
"Nuh-uh," he told Walt. "I could get fired. Besides, why you wanna know that? Can't you just ask Nancy?"
Walt shushed him loudly.
"No, I can't ask Nancy," he said quietly. "Please, Pete. It's important. I'll give you fifty today, and another fifty when I get my next stipend in two weeks."
Walt was referring to the allowance -culled from monthly Social Security payments- doled out to the residents of Sycamore Glen.
Pete considered the offer. "A hundred bucks?"
Walt nodded. "That's right."
Pete paused, glancing suspiciously as two vehicles passed them in the parking lot.
"Okay," he told Walt, extending his hand to accept the cash.
Thursday morning brought a light, steady rain coupled with a mild breeze; cold, under-cooked pancakes with powdered sugar, and a letter addressed to Walt, with no return address. Back in his room, Walt opened the envelope as carefully as he could, and found another folded sheet of white printer paper. Unfolding the mysterious missive, he read.
YOU HAVE THE BIG MOUTH.
This time, Walt didn't bother contacting Nancy.
No one had died yet, despite the two sinister notes, so Walt waited until Harry came to visit after work that Friday. Then Walt informed Stacey Quinn, the head nurse, that father and son were going to lunch at the Falcon Diner. Once in the parking lot of the restaurant, Walt called his daughter Molly in Los Angeles and put the cell phone on speaker.
"So what do we know thus far?" Walt began rhetorically. "This is an inside job. How do we know this? Because the first note was folded into three sections, so that it could be slipped into an article of clothing, most likely an apron. There are cameras in the hallways, which the employees would know, but not in the residents' rooms."
He paused for effect. Neither of his children said a word.
"On any given day, a lot of people come into my room." A second pause. "The second note was mailed, and arrived two days after someone saw me conferring with Pete Damick, the head of Maintenance. So I surmise that the culprit is an employee -who dislikes me- and who doesn't work Wednesdays and Thursdays. Hence the delay in delivery. When Harry came to visit last Tuesday, he probably forgot to turn off the computer, and our culprit simply wandered in, sat down at the terminal, and found what he needed.
"Finally," Walt announced, I have official documentation, courtesy of Pete." He pulled out his own crinkled piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "This is the weekly shift schedule for Sycamore Glen. Now there are three people who-"
Loud honking interrupted Walt's summation. Turning around, he glared at the driver of a white and tan 1981 station wagon.
"Harry, could you . . .?
"Sure, Dad," Harry replied, exiting the vehicle.
From the rearview mirror, Walt observed Harry square his shoulders and approach the impatient motorist. The offending driver was about 60, with a felt derby and thick glasses. The honker rolled down his window and started to speak, but Harry cut him off. After a brief, heated exchange, the other man threw up his hands, shook his head, and steered his vehicle to an open spot about 40 feet away. Harry headed back to his 2002 Mazda Protégé to hear his father's verdict.
He climbed into the car, taking his spot behind the steering wheel.
" . . . and Jill Linderman," Walt concluded.
He looked at his father quizzically.
"Who's Jill Linderman?"
"She, along with Angel Ramirez, Ethan Flass, and Mort Cogswell is one of our four suspects," Walt announced. "But I think we can safely discount Mort, since he saved my life."
Walt was referring to the time when Dr. Medea Kouros had attacked Walt with a syringe laced with a deadly overdose of insulin because Walt figured out the "accelerated attrition" plot involving the murder of four residents. Both Mort and Walt's roommate at the time, Medford Cappelli, had intervened on Walt's behalf.
Harry couldn't resist. "What's Mort done for you lately?"
Walt couldn't either. "Shut the hell up, Harry."
Dinner that night was more unpleasant than usual. The foul fare notwithstanding, the servers, bus persons and kitchen help seemed impatient and resentful. Noticing "suspect number 2" -Ethan Flass- Walt tugged at his sleeve as Ethan passed him.
Ethan stopped, shooting Walt a glare. "Yeah, what?"
"Hey, Ethan, why is the staff so surly tonight?"
"Because four employees quit last week, and Sandy in HR still hasn't found any replacements. We're workin' mandatory overtime. Schedules are all messed up. Even Dmitri is bussing tables."
"Who the hell is Dmitri?" Walt asked.
"He's the cook," Ethan snapped. "Can I go now, Walt?"
Walt released his grip. "Yeah. Sure."
Halfway through dessert, which consisted of banana pudding, Walt had an idea.
Clearing his throat loudly, Walt spat out a wad of yellow goo with as much vehemence as he could muster.
"My God!" he shouted. "It's bad enough that the meals here are undercooked, overcooked, and just plain rotten, but how the hell do you spoil pudding from a mix?" Walt pounded his fist on the table, spilling his cup of low fat milk. This drew several employees to rush in his direction.
Siobhan Connor, one of the CNA's, opted for a palliative approach. She knelt down beside Walt and gently draped her arm around his shoulder.
"Walt, calm down. We can get you something else, if you like."
Walt kept up the faux tirade. "Get me something else? Like what, fried horseshit? Who makes this crap anyway?"
Nancy appeared on the scene, arms akimbo, flanked by two burly busboys.
"Walter Edward Clayton, I will have you sedated and restrained if you don't stop this at once!" she shrieked. "What is your problem?"
"Yes, what is your problem?"
The speaker was a stout, balding, middle-aged man with thick, hairy arms and a tattoo of a red star on his right bicep. He wore white shirt and pants, an apron, and a hair net. He had a thick Russian accent.
Walt matched his defiance.
"Who are you?"
"I am cook, Dmitri Yusupov."
"What did you say?"
Dmitri folded his arms. "I said I am cook!"
Walt had a suspicion. But a little taunting, however dangerous, was necessary to prove his theory.
"Don't you mean 'I am the cook?"
Dmitri was livid. "What is a difference?"
"What is the difference?" Walt retorted. "Just like 'your roommate is a dead man," and 'you have a big mouth.'" Walt snorted. "But it couldn't have been you, Dmitri. You're too stupid to hack into anyone's computer files, even if they left the terminal on."
Dmitri reached behind his back, as if adjusting his apron. Then he withdraw a paring knife. "You are a stupid one, dourak," he hissed. "I was one of chief programmers for FSB when I was in Moscow." He took a step toward Walt, then stopped. Nancy and her brawny minions looked on in horror, but did nothing.
"And in three years I come here, I know that you complain about a food, and say that we Russians are the sour people!"
"I never said that," Walt lied.
"Ya tibya oub'yu!" the enraged cook shouted, closing in with the diminutive cutlery implement.
A loud clang coincided with Dmitri's halting abruptly, rolling his eyes, and slumping, unconscious, to the floor. A slight young man with a blond goatee stood behind the cook, brandishing a frying pan.
"Prosti, droog," he said.
"I'm not a bigot," Walt insisted. "I don't like anybody."
From the opposite side of the phone conversation, Harry's voice sounded tinny and distant.
"You did say that Russians were sour people," his son reminded him.
"After 70-plus years of totalitarianism, who can blame them?" Walt cleared his throat. "Besides, I thanked that other Russian guy, Vladivostok, for saving my life."
"Vladimir," Harry said.
"Yeah, whatever," Walt replied. Noticing a pretty young woman in a server's uniform, Walt dismissed his son.
"Bye, Harry."
The visitor was carrying a tray laden with institutional food. Walt suppressed a frown, but then decided that whoever the new cook was, he or she just might possess more culinary skill than Dmitri Yusupov had. Walt forced a smile.
"Hello," he said, as the lady gingerly set the tray on Walt's table. "What is your name, dear?"
She returned the smile, flashing flawless white teeth.
"Svetlana," she replied.
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