Partners In Crime (26 page)

"Now, now. Have you ever been in a
crematorium?" he asked.

The doors opened on the fourteenth floor.
"Yes, I have." She led the way to the nurses' station. He didn't
have the energy to ask for details.

The nurse was expecting them. She was
enormously fat and very businesslike. She had a large red whistle
looped around her neck and T.S. found himself wondering why.
Perhaps she whistled for help getting back on her feet whenever she
slipped and fell.

"Are you a relative?" she asked, staring at
Auntie Lil over large round glasses.

Auntie Lil summoned cheer into her voice.
"No, just old friends, dear. Very good old friends."

The nurse gave her a careful once-over and
Auntie Lil straightened as if she were afraid they might seize her
and keep her should she fail to pass physical muster.

"I'm an old colleague of his," T.S.
explained, placing a reassuring hand on Auntie Lil's shoulder.

The nurse made a check mark on her
clipboard. "Well, he didn't recognize either of your names, but
that isn't surprising. He's having trouble recognizing his own."
She began to waddle down a long white corridor and they fell in
behind her, unable to keep from staring at her curious rolling
gait.

"He doesn't recognize anyone these days,"
the nurse added. "I'm afraid he's grown a bit senile and never
having visitors doesn't help. You two are the first people to ask
for him in three months."

"What about his family?" Auntie Lil asked,
appalled.

"There's a daughter that lives in the city,"
the nurse replied. "In Mr. Peabody's old home, if I'm not mistaken.
But we don't see much of her." She gave a derisive snort and waved
them into a large sunroom. It was curiously empty of furniture,
deliberately so to make room for wheelchairs. A group of women were
gathered in front of a blaring television set at one end of the
room, their heads bobbing as they watched intently or spoke to each
other. T.S. thought of a mental hospital immediately because they
were all dressed so closely alike, nearly every woman wearing a
navy blue cardigan wrapped tightly over a flowered dress.

A tiny figure sat hunched in a wheelchair at
the other end of the room. T.S. hadn't realized how much hope he
had piled on the shoulders of Mr. Ralph I. Peabody until it
evaporated at the recognition that the lonely figure was his man.
He remembered Ralph Peabody as a proud man with careful posture,
his hair always impeccably groomed and his dress immaculate. But
Ralph Peabody today was a gnarled, gaunt old man, huddled in a
wheelchair, who stared out the window at nothing but fog.

"You have some visitors," the nurse shouted
in the old man's ear. She turned abruptly, rubber soles squeaking
on the linoleum floor, and walked briskly to the television to turn
the volume down before sailing regally out the door.

T.S. and Auntie Lil stared at Ralph Peabody,
uncertain of how to proceed. The old man appeared not to notice
their presence. Behind them, the old ladies laughed uproariously at
a commercial involving dancing dogs.

"Pull us up some chairs, Theodore," Auntie
Lil commanded. She bent over the feeble figure and took one of his
hands in her own.

"Hello, Mr. Peabody. I am Lillian Hubbert,
Theodore Hubbert's aunt. Do you remember Theodore Hubbert?" She
spoke in a normal but firm tone of voice. The old man appeared to
be listening. Suspicious eyes peered out at her from a mass of
wrinkles and scaly skin. His beard lay in stubble around the folds.
It was clear he could not shave himself and that a careless aide
had not tried very hard. His eyes had obviously once been blue, but
now were milky and curtained.

"No," he said in a voice tinged with phlegm.
He coughed fitfully and stared at her, pulling his hand away. "Are
you a Jehovah's Witness?"

Auntie Lil sat in the chair provided by T.S.
and drew closer to the man's wheelchair. "No, I am Theodore
Hubbert's aunt. Do you remember Theodore?"

"He doesn't know me as Theodore," T.S.
hissed with some satisfaction.

"Of course," Auntie Lil murmured. She said
more loudly. "This is my nephew, T.S. Hubbert. He is the Personnel
Manager at Sterling & Sterling."

Ralph Peabody leaned forward slightly and
pulled his sweater more tightly around him. "Sterling &
Sterling? I worked there once. They've forgotten all about me. Yes,
they have."

"I'm sorry," T.S. shouted, following the
lead of the nurse.

"You don't have to shout!" the old man
yelled back. He lowered his voice to a grumpy growl. "I hear
perfectly well." He stared at T.S. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm T.S. Hubbert. I have your old job at
Sterling & Sterling. I took over your job when you retired,
remember?"

The old man peered at him. "Nonsense. Some
overconfident young twerp took my place."

"That was me," T.S. replied, feeling
foolish.

"Are you one of the Sterling boys?"

"Me?" The old man's confusion was
contagious. "No. I just work there," T.S. said. "I worked there, I
mean. I was Personnel Manager. I retired, too."

The old man appeared not to have heard. He
stared back out the window. "Cockleshells," he said.

Auntie Lil tried to draw his attention back
to the room. "Do you ever see any of your old friends from Sterling
& Sterling?"

"That place." He snorted. "They've forgotten
me. They forgot me the day I walked out the door." He shook an
angry finger at T.S. "You retire and that's it. You may as well
never have been there." He glared at Auntie Lil's hat. "Are you
sure you're not a Jehovah's Witness?"

"I'm sure, Mr. Peabody." She leaned forward
again. "There's been some trouble at Sterling & Sterling." He
appeared not to hear. "They've stabbed Robert Cheswick."

"Who?" he asked loudly, swatting at the
empty air.

"Someone has killed Robert Cheswick and John
Boswell and Stanley Sinclair," she said more loudly.

The old man stared at his hands. "I don't
remember them," he said. T.S. knew he was lying.

"Yes, you do," T.S. interrupted. "They were
there when you were Personnel Manager."

"I don't know who you're talking about," he
said firmly. He looked around him. "Is my daughter here?"

T.S. automatically followed his gaze. "No.
No, she's not."

"Thought not. Do you suppose she's died?"
The old man laughed. "That would be something. Maybe I'd get my
house back." He leaned forward and looked at Auntie Lil. "Are you
sure you're not her?"

"No. Of course I'm not." She looked at T.S.
and he shrugged.

"Then, who are you?" the old man demanded.
"I'm not interested in any Seventh Day Adventists, you know. I may
need my blood transfusions."

Auntie Lil sat primly in her chair, hands
folded carefully in her lap. She stared at Ralph Peabody very
quietly for a moment, then she took a deep breath and looked him
right in the eye. "Meet me for margaritas at Magritte's," she
said.

Ralph Peabody sat straight up in his chair
and a puzzled look passed over his face. "You?" he cried. He pulled
his sweater close around him. T.S. thought he might have shivered.
"It's you? Why I would never have guessed." He looked closer. "You
look so old. Must be your conscience." He leaned back and glared at
her. "You should never have done those things, you know."

"I'm sorry for them," Auntie Lil replied.
T.S. looked on, mystified.

"It was nasty. Very nasty business. Caused
those boys a lot of trouble." Ralph Peabody wagged a finger at
Auntie Lil. "I never believed you were telling the truth. They
might even have lost their jobs."

"But they didn't," Auntie Lil replied.

"No. They didn't. Thanks to me. I kept it
quiet." He grew indignant. "I'm the one that had to cover up and
read your filth." He leaned forward again. "That's a very sick mind
you have there, missy."

"I know," Auntie Lil said apologetically.
"I'm sorry now for what I've done."

"Don't you go thinking everyone will
forget," the old man warned. "I've got the proof. I've got the
proof. Words alone don't excuse it."

"What proof?" Auntie Lil widened her eyes
and injected worry into her voice.

"What proof?" He turned to T.S. and snorted.
"What proof, she asks?" He folded his arms and glared at Auntie
Lil. "You never thought about that when you sent those letters, did
you? All those filthy letters and postcards and such. Those nasty
photos." He shook his head. "Trouble. A whole lot of trouble."

"I was ill," Auntie Lil said to him. "I
didn't know what I was doing."

He huffed. "I should hope not. Very improper
behavior. You should be ashamed."

"I am. Deeply. I am deeply ashamed." Auntie
Lil took his hand in hers again but he pulled it away
indignantly.

"Do you know this woman?" he asked T.S.

"Yes." T.S. was unsure of what else to
reply. "I've known her for..."

"She is dangerous," the old man interrupted.
He tapped the side of his head. "Not well. She may look fine, but
she's not well."

Auntie Lil stood and went to the window. She
stared out at the fog, thinking. Then she turned back to the old
man. "I am well now. I want to destroy all traces of my old life.
Please give me my letters back. Please give me the photos
back."

Ralph Peabody looked almost fierce in his
anger. "You won't get them back from me, missy. I've got the goods
on you. I've kept every one of your filthy accusations and they're
safe. Away from the eyes of others. Proof positive that you're as
crazy as a bedbug and a hundred times more evil." He wheeled his
chair around away from them, staring at the other end of the
room.

T.S. and Auntie Lil exchanged a glance. T.S.
shrugged. "We didn't mean to tire you," he said to the old man.
"Let me take you back to your room."

The old man made no reply and T.S. slowly
wheeled him out of the room. Auntie Lil remained behind, staring
out the window.

"Which way?" T.S. asked. He steered down
corridors so relentlessly alike that he could not even remember
which direction he'd come from.

The old man waved to the right and T.S.
slowly made his way past open doors. Inside nearly every small
room, an old man or woman lay on the bed. Some slept under the
sheets, obviously infirm. Others lay on top of the spread, staring
out the door at nothing. A name tag marked each doorway and T.S.
slowly wheeled Ralph Peabody along until they came to his room.

"I don't want to go back to bed," the old
man declared suddenly.

"No, of course not. Where would you like to
sit? By the window?"

Ralph Peabody did not reply and T.S. wheeled
him over to a small curtained set of double windows. The old man
stared down at the highway far below. Cars whizzed by silently. It
was a hell of a view for a bedbound person.

He appeared not to notice as T.S. quietly
searched the room. He opened a set of built-in shelves against one
wall and bent down to check beneath the bed. He found nothing, not
even dust. He checked a small end table with drawers that stood
beside the bed, and even looked behind the curtains on the window
sill. There were very few personal effects in the room and nothing
resembling papers or a file. T.S. was peering into the closet when
Ralph Peabody finally spoke up, his voice startling T.S. into
bumping his head on the clothes bar.

"Are you sure that woman's not my daughter?"
the old man asked.

"Yes. I'm sure." T.S. rubbed his head and
moved to stand beside him. "Who do you think she is?"

"Don't play games with me, young man." Ralph
Peabody glared up at him. "If she's who she says she is, you better
watch out, buster." He shook a finger at T.S. "Just keep your pants
on, sonny. Keep your pants zipped and you'll be okay."

T.S. nodded. He was getting used to the
advice.

"Cockleshells!" the old man cried again. He
turned back to his window view. There was nothing more T.S. could
do.

"Take care of yourself," he called from the
doorway.

"Margaritas, indeed," Ralph Peabody replied
gruffly. "Tell them I'm sick and tired of these damn Jehovah's
Witnesses!"

T.S. left the old man muttering by the
window and went back to retrieve Auntie Lil. She was waiting
quietly in her chair, watching the backs of the little old ladies
clustered around the television set. He sat down and took her hand,
patting it gently. It seemed very frail and dry.

"He doesn't have all his wits," T.S.
said.

"Perhaps he doesn't want to. But like a lot
of old people, he can remember events that happened long ago
clearly. It's the recent past he has trouble with."

"He seemed to think he knew who you
were."

"Yes, he did. It's beginning to make some
sense. Did you find anything?"

"No. There wasn't much at all. He told me to
keep my pants on, though."

"What exactly did he say?" Auntie Lil looked
up suddenly.

"He told me if I didn't keep my pants zipped
when I was around you, I'd be in trouble."

Auntie Lil stared at T.S.

"It was just a saying, Auntie Lil."

She shook her head. "No. I don't think
so."

"But he said he couldn't even remember
Cheswick, Boswell and Sinclair."

"Maybe not. Maybe he was protecting them.
But he sure knew something later. He has the evidence, he said.
Letters. Postcards. Photographs."

"Of what?"

"I don't know. That comes next."

"Where would he keep them?"

"There's only one other place," Auntie Lil
said. Her chin was propped on her hand and she frowned as she
thought. "The nurse said he has a daughter living in his old home.
It has to be in that house."

"You want us to break into a house?" T.S.
was incredulous, but not surprised.

"Nonsense, Theodore. I'm not a burglar. I
am, however, an excellent liar." She rose and walked briskly to the
door, ready to put the nursing home behind her.