Majoring In Murder (8 page)

“He must have enjoyed that.”

“He was good at it, I’ll tell you that. It’s a low-stakes, friendly game, fifty cents, a dollar. We don’t let anyone play too deep. If a guy is down thirty bucks, we make him stop playing. But I don’t ever remember Wes losing. He was always serious, concentrated on his cards. I often wondered if he enjoyed himself or just came to avoid being labeled antisocial.”

“He probably looked forward to those evenings more than you know.”

“I hope you’re right. He’d changed quite a bit these last three or four months.”

“Oh? How so?”

Rosenfeld frowned, as though trying to put words to what he was thinking. “Wes always was a bit paranoid, but it got worse recently. He seemed unusually on edge, anxious, distrustful. I’ve no idea why.”

“Obviously something heavy weighing on his mind,” I offered.

“Yes. I keep thinking there were still things he would have wanted to do. Travel, or read something new. I’ve got a pile of books I’ve been meaning to find time for. I picked one up for the first time last night.”

“That’s what death does,” I said. “It reminds us to appreciate life, not to take it for granted. But it’s a harsh way to learn that lesson.”

“It’s ironic, really. You get up in the morning, shave, dress, go about your business, and a storm comes up, dumps a house on top of you, and kills you.”

“Yes, it is ironic,” I said.

But was that what had happened? I was still disturbed about the way Wes Newmark had died. What was it? I knew I’d better come up with an answer soon or I was in for another sleepless night.

“Dr. Zelinsky, pick up five-one-six-six,” a voice said over the public-address system. “Dr. Zelinsky, pick up five-one-six-six.”

Harriet and I walked down the corridor of New Salem County Hospital on Monday morning, bright orange visitor badges clipped to our collars, our plans to visit Schoolman’s bursar, Phil Adler, the previous day having been scuttled by her campus responsibilities.

“I hate hospitals,” Harriet said, jamming her fists into her jacket pockets.

“Lots of people do,” I said. “They don’t bother me.”

“I used to think it was because my husband died in a hospital. I was there for months, sleeping on a lumpy cot. Every time I went home to change and returned there, I would feel sick to my stomach. I thought it must just be that hospital and that situation, but this is a different hospital, and I don’t like this one either.”

“What do you think bothers you?”

“The smell,” she said. “It’s faint, not strong. They keep this place very clean, I know. But there’s always this slight odor.”

“A mixture of institutional food and antiseptic?”

“That’s it exactly,” she said. “It gets me every time.”

Adler’s room was in the comer at the end of the hall. Harriet knocked on the partially closed door and pushed it open. He was reclining against two pillows, with his leg in a full cast, supported by three more pillows. He looked older than when I’d seen him last, his hair mussed, and with gray circles under his eyes.

“Are we disturbing you, Phil?” Harriet asked.

“Not at all,” he said, raising a bandaged hand. “Come on in. Can’t offer you much in hospitality, but you’re welcome.”

“You remember Jessica Fletcher, don’t you, Phil?”

“Sure. Our celebrity professor.”

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Not great,” he said. “There’s quite a lot of pain, and the pills last only so long.”

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” I said. “Would you like us to call the nurse for you?”

“No, thanks. Won’t do any good. The nurse they assigned me is a bad-tempered one.”

“I heard that,” said a nurse, bustling into the room and setting a tray on the table next to his bed.

“I meant you to,” he said.

“And don’t I know it.” She picked up his wrist and timed his pulse. “Well, sweet talk won’t get you anywhere,” she said, poking a digital thermometer in his ear.

“Would you like us to leave the room?” I asked.

“Not necessary,” she replied. “He’ll be happy to hear it’s time for his meds. Maybe it’ll make him a nicer host.”

“How long will Phil have to stay in the hospital?” Harriet asked.

“I’m not the doctor, but I’m guessing he’ll be here close to a week,” the nurse said. “They put the bones back together but they can’t suture the skin till they make sure there’s no infection. He’s also got two cracked ribs and a bruised spleen that the doctors are watching.” She handed him a paper cup with two pills in it, and poured a glass of water from a bedside carafe.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I see your manners are showing this afternoon. That’s a nice change from this morning.” She picked up her tray. “He can use some cheering. Have a nice visit, ladies.” She was out the door.

“I guess I’ve been complaining a lot.”

“You’ve got reason,” Harriet said. “I brought you something from Mrs. Grace in the kitchen.” She dug into her bag and came up with a foil-wrapped parcel.

“What is it?”

“A piece of the apple crumb cake she served at breakfast this morning.”

Adler took the package with a wan smile and placed it on the rolling table next to his bed. “Please thank her for me.” He was silent for a moment. “I heard about Wes,” he said in a low voice.

Harriet sighed. “You did? I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said. “I thought I’d give you a little more time to recover.”

“Brad Zelinsky was in this morning with that policeman, Parish. They told me. I was waiting for Wes,” he said, looking from Harriet to me. “That’s why I got caught in the tornado. By the time I decided I should run, the storm was over the house and I was under a beam.”

“What was the appointment about?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, picking at a loose end of his bandage. “He just said it was urgent, that he had things to discuss with me and I shouldn’t leave the office.”

“Then you don’t have any idea what he wanted to talk about?” Harriet asked.

“None. Parish asked me the same questions.”

“Considering your position at the college,” I said, “do you think it would be safe to say Wes Newmark had some question for you having to do with budget or finances?”

“You can’t be sure. Maybe he knew some student who needed financial aid. Or maybe he wanted to borrow my car. He did that once last year when his old Chevy broke down. How do I know what he wanted? He didn’t say anything except, ‘Stay there; I need to talk to you.’ ”

“Were you good friends?” I asked.

“Not really. We had the occasional lunch together in the cafeteria, and I sat in on his regular poker game a couple of times—Brad invited me—but I can’t say we were good friends.”

“Who were the regulars in that game?”

“For heaven’s sake, Jessica, what could that possibly have to do with the appointment?”

“I’m just curious, Harriet. It’s not important.”

“Why do you think Wes didn’t keep his appointment?” I asked Phil.

“Who knows? Maybe he couldn’t find whatever he wanted to show me. Or maybe he was running late and the storm overpowered him like it did me. Hard to keep an appointment when you’re lying under a pile of furniture.”

“It’s really strange,” Harriet said softly. “He never told me he was meeting with you, but whatever he wanted to discuss must have been extremely important to him.”

“Well, I don’t know what it was,” Phil said, “and I guess we’ll never know.” He leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes. “I think the pills are kicking in,” he said.

“One last thing, Phil,” I said. “
When
did Wes make the appointment with you?”

“I can’t remember.”

“We’ll leave you in peace,” Harriet said, pulling on my arm. “Is there anything I can bring you the next time I come?”

He shook his head, eyes still closed. “If I think of anything, I’ll call,” he said, his speech slightly slurred. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“I want to check in with the social-work department before we leave,” Harriet said after we’d closed Phil’s door behind us. “He’s going to need assistance when he leaves the hospital. With that cast, he won’t be able to dress himself, much less get around. I want to alert them to the problem.”

“I thought he was married,” I said. “He wears a ring.”

“Was. His wife left him last year. I don’t think he’s gotten over it. The office is this way,” she said, steering me around a comer. “She was one of those self-centered glamour girls, long blond hair, high heels and jeans. A city girl. And she had a difficult time adjusting to small-town college life. I never cared for her. She complained all the time. I can’t say I was sorry when I heard she went back to Chicago. Apparently she has family there.”

“Harriet, would you mind if I stopped somewhere else while you see the social worker?”

“No, of course not. I’ll only be fifteen minutes or so. Where shall we meet?”

“How about right outside the auxiliary gift shop. If you’re delayed, I can browse their shelves.”

“That sounds perfect,” she said. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

I went to the reception desk in the lobby and asked where I could find Dr. Zelinsky.

“Would you like me to page him for you?” the lady in the pink uniform asked.

“No, I don’t want to interrupt him if he’s busy or with a patient. Does he have an office in the building where I can leave him a note?”

“You could leave a message for him with the pathology lab. It’s on the basement level. Turn right when you exit the elevator.”

I followed her directions and came to a glass door on which PATHOLOGY was etched in block letters. I pushed the door open. A pair of lab technicians bent over microscopes looked up. “Can I help you?” one asked.

“I’m looking for Dr. Zelinsky,” I said. “If he’s not here, I can leave him a message.”

“Let me see if he’s available. Who shall I say is asking for him?”

“We haven’t met. My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m a visiting professor at Schoolman College.”

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to an office chair. “I’ll find out if he can see you.”

A moment later, Dr. Brad Zelinsky emerged from an office in the back.

“How do you do,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ve heard about you. How can I help you today?”

“I wonder if we could speak privately for just a moment.”

“I’m sure your fears are unfounded, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Dr. Zelinsky as he opened the door for me. He’d kindly given me ten minutes, and that was all I’d needed to make my point.

“I hope you’re right,” I said. “It’s just a feeling. I can’t quite pinpoint what it was that triggered my thinking.”

“People die in tornadoes every year. Most often it’s just a tragic accident, but there are always numskulls who ignore the warnings. They figure, ‘It’ll never happen to me.’ And we’ve got Phil Adler upstairs as another example of this kind of stupidity. You can quote me on that.”

“I’m not planning to write anything about this,” I said.

“Just a figure of speech,” he said. “I gave Phil a piece of my mind this morning. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t run away, and that’s his own fault. I told him we’ve got enough problems taking care of sick patients in this hospital without throwing in healthy people who are just too dumb to take shelter when they’re supposed to.” He drew a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped perspiration from his brow. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get so hot on the topic.”

“I understand,” I said. “And as I told you, I’m really relieved to hear that you’ll be conducting an autopsy.”

“Got to do a postmortem whenever there’s an accidental death. That’s the law.”

“Or one under suspicious circumstances.”

Zelinsky smiled. “You’re sure a persistent one,” he said. “Yes, that’s true, too. But as I said, I don’t see anything to support that theory right now.”

“But if you do—”

“If I do, I’ll call you,” he said. “Or you can call me. You have my card?”

“Yes.” I patted my jacket pocket.

“The autopsy results are public information, so there won’t be any trouble if I read you the report.”

“I appreciate that, Dr. Zelinsky. When do you think the autopsy will take place?”

“Well, seeing as I’m the one doing it, it can take place whenever I have the time. I’ll probably get to it today, tomorrow at the latest. Don’t want the body hanging around. I expect I’ll be getting a call from Markham’s Funeral Home anytime now. That usually pushes me along.”

“By the way, I understand you were a regular in Wes Newmark’s poker game.”

“Who told you that?”

“Harriet Schoolman Bennett.”

“Ah, the small-town grapevine. My secret is out. I’m a closet poker player,” he said, smiling.

“Who else played in that game?”

“Any particular reason you want to know?”

“I’m helping to arrange the memorial service. I want to make certain all his friends are invited.”

“Well, there’s me; Wes, of course; Phil on occasion; Lowell; Larry Durbin; and Manny Rosenfeld. Harriet even sat in once or twice.”

“Lowell? Would that be President Needler?”

“Yeah, although he’s a lousy poker player. Loses every month. We had to put in the thirty-dollar-limit rule for him. Otherwise he would have gone broke.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, I have to get back to work. Nice meeting you.”

I thanked him, left the laboratory, and found my way to the gift shop on the main floor. Harriet hadn’t arrived yet, and I perused items for sale while I waited for her. There was a large selection of toilet articles, powder, cologne, toothbrushes and toothpaste, and other personal items a patient might need but not have brought to the hospital. Toys and games, for adults as well as children, took up several shelves, as did silk flower arrangements, displayed next to a sign that read REAL PLANTS AND FLOWERS ARE NOT PERMITTED IN THE CARDIAC UNIT. In one corner was a large display of books and magazines, and I wandered in that direction, stopping along the way to admire a hand-crocheted bed jacket made by a hospital volunteer, according to its label.