Grave Matters

'Why, just this morning,' Alice said. 'In fact, she left just a few minutes before we heard the alarm coming from Vivian's room.'

'Can you describe her?'

'Fairly young.'

Warrick asked, 'How young?'

'Oh-sixty-five or so.'

That stopped Warrick for a moment; then he asked, 'Description…?'

'She had gray hair and glasses.'

Catherine and Warrick looked at the group of women in the hall, and then at each other, confirming a shared thought: Alice had just described all of them.

'We don't usually have a fuss this big when one of us passes,' Alice said, eyes making slits in her much- lived-in face. 'Why now? Was she murdered?'

Trying to keep her voice and expression neutral, Catherine asked the woman, 'Why would you think that, Alice?'

The heavyset woman, Willie, glowered at Alice, then turned to Catherine, 'Never mind her-she watches way too much TV!'

'I do not,' Alice argued back. 'I swear there was a case just like this on Murder, She Wrote.'

Everyone in the hall stopped and eyeballed Alice for a long moment.

Behind her tri-focals, Alice's eyes widened and her chin rose defensively. 'Well, there was.…Of course, it could've been Barnaby Jones…or maybe Rockford Files. Isn't that James Garner just adorable?'

As the woman prattled on about television, Catherine watched as the other members of the Gossip Club slowly eased away into real life, each suddenly needing to visit someone in a nearby room.

Taking the hint, Catherine and Warrick slipped back into Vivian Elliot's room, leaving poor David alone in the hall with Alice theorizing on what had happened to an old woman on some detective show she'd seen either last week or perhaps twenty-five years ago.

'What exactly are we looking for?' Warrick asked as they unpacked their equipment.

Catherine's eyes roamed around the room, stopping briefly on the body, then moving on. She prided herself on her ability to make the first read of a crime scene an important one. But she could only shake her head. 'Warrick-I haven't a clue….'

'I hate when that happens.'

With a sigh, Catherine said, 'We better gather everything we can. Now that we know that this was a murder.'

Warrick's head reared back. 'We do?'

'Suuuure,' Catherine said. 'It was on Barnaby Jones! Or was that Quincy…?'

Shaking his head, smiling one-sidedly, Warrick got out his camera, pulled the sheet back, and began shooting pictures. Catherine started by taking electrostatic print lifts from the tile floor. Truth was, half the hospital had been in and out of here since Vivian Elliot had died; but if there was a killer, that person's shoe prints would be among the many, and Catherine hoped they (and the computer) would be able to sort them all out.

After he finished photographing the body, Warrick moved on and took shots of every piece of equipment, every machine, every piece of furniture in the room. Catherine bent at the plastic biohazard dump and pulled out the liner bag, marking it as evidence. When they finished, Catherine had a pile of maybe fifteen evidence bags and Warrick had shot at least six rolls of twenty-four exposure film.

And yet not a single thing had jumped out at either of them as saying, This is a crime…I am significant….

David and his coroner's crew removed the body, while Catherine and Warrick took most everything else. When they departed, the bed had been stripped bare, including the pillows, and the metal stand that had held two different IV bags was empty. The biohazard dump was also empty, the closet too, and in separate containers at the bottom of one of the bags, Catherine had even collected the remnants of Vivian Elliot's last breakfast left on a tray that apparently had been shifted into the bathroom when the recovering woman had gone code blue.

Alice Deams peeked out a doorway as Catherine strode down the corridor with the last of her grisly booty.

'Was I right?' Alice asked, eyes wide behind thick lenses. 'Is it murder?'

'We don't know,' Catherine said, pasting on a pleasant smile. 'Why would you even think that?'

'Oh! All the hubbub!' Alice said, as she moved into the hall, closer now, more confidential. 'Besides…it isn't like we haven't noticed that more of us are passing away than usual.'

Catherine's eyes tightened, but she kept her voice casual. 'You think so?'

'Oh, my, yes. They're dropping like flies around this joint!'

A little stunned by Alice's no doubt TV-driven phrasing, Catherine managed to ask, 'How long have you lived here?'

Alice shrugged; within the heavy sweater, her arms were folded. 'Going on ten years.'

'You have family that visits you?'

She beamed and nodded and withdrew a snapshot from a sweater pocket, holding it up so Catherine (whose hands were full) could see it plainly.

Alice said, 'I carry this with me all the time-my son, daughter-in-law, and their boy and girl.'

'Do they visit often?'

'Once or twice a week. They take me to the market-sometimes even out to a movie.'

Catherine nodded. 'It's good to have good kids…. You say, in ten years, you've never seen deaths bunched this closely together?'

'Not really…. The Gossip Club sends flowers to everybody's funeral. You know, we take up a collection, get everybody to sign a card. Our flower budget this month is already twice normal and there's still a week and a half to go in the month! The last few months have been hard, too.'

'How so?'

'You get used to people dying in a place like this-in a way. But, still…. May I tell you something that will sound…awful?'

'Uh…sure. Go right ahead.'

Alice moved closer; she smelled like medication. 'When you live at a nursing home…and don't kid yourself, honey, this is a nursing home…and you see one or two people pass…you kind of sigh a sigh of relief, and think… whew. Odds are, not gonna be me this month.'

'But lately…'

'Lately? All bets are off, kiddo.'

Catherine drew in a breath. Then she said, 'Alice, we're going to look into this-but I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.'

Alice Deams trundled off down the hall, but she didn't look convinced; maybe that rerun of an old TV show was haunting her-more likely, it was seeing David show up with his coroner's wagon a little too often.

Catherine kept telling herself that four elderly people dying in one such facility was not unusual. The heat was at dangerous levels and, even though Sunny Day was air-conditioned, somehow that might be a factor.

Later, as Catherine moved down the hall with her gear, Vega came out of Whiting's office and approached her. He did not look like a happy man.

'No good diagnosis from the doc?'

'The guy's such a basket case over this,' Vega said, shaking his head, 'he might as well be one of the patients.'

'What's his problem?'

'The usual-all he can see is lawsuits, malpractice insurance, and a bunch of really, really bad news happening on his watch.'

'Can he live through one more question?'