Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“Some people call it the Florence Nightingale Pledge. We all stood up and recited it when I graduated from nursing school. I solemnly swore to ‘hold in confidence all personal matters committed to my keeping and family affairs coming to my knowledge in the practice of my calling.’”

Now Ceepak is nodding like a happy bobble-headed doll.

“So, long story short,” says Nussbaum, “you didn’t do what you were hired to do in Dr. Rosen’s house?”

“Not according to Judith. So, she kept pressuring her sister. Nagging Shona to have me write up reports about Dr. Rosen’s doctor visits. To Xerox any medical records I could find. To feed Judith information.”

“What kind of information?”

“Anything having to do with his health. Physical and-” Christine hesitates. “Mental.”

“What?” says Nussbaum. “You think they wanted him declared mentally incompetent? That way they could ship him off to a nursing home or the nuthouse so they could move into his mansion?”

“Sorry, Mr. Nussbaum,” Christine says with a frown. “I know you’re trying to help me, but I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to speculate about family affairs that came to my knowledge while engaged in the performance of my professional duties.”

“Agreed,” says Ceepak, who is a stickler about obeying the whole code even when it would be easier to chuck the parts that work against you.

“Okay, okay,” says the lawyer. “Fine. Not important. So why did Shona strangle you that night?”

Christine takes in a steadying breath. “I had just caught her rummaging around in my shoulder bag, looking for medical information about Dr. Rosen, I guess.”

“Did she find anything?”

“Of course not. We keep all those kinds of documents at Dr. Rosen’s house in a locked filing cabinet.”

“So all you were doing the night of the altercation was protecting your patient’s right to privacy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s excellent. By the way, how is Arnie doing?”

“Very well. Especially for someone in his nineties.”

“Tell him I said hello.”

“I take it you know Dr. Rosen?” says Ceepak.

Nussbaum smiles. Points to his teeth.

“In this town, who doesn’t? I mean, if you’re a certain age. For years, Dr. Rosen was the dentist in Sea Haven. Capped four of my molars. Even his root canals were painless.” Nussbaum flips through more papers. “This TRO. Who signed this thing, again?”

“Judge Ken Guarnery,” says Ceepak.

“What a putz. My guess? Mrs. Oppenheimer’s late husband, ‘Slick Opie’ Oppenheimer, handled the judge’s investment portfolio back when Guarnery was just a schmuck lawyer, which he was, believe you me. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dearly departed Arthur Oppenheimer bankrolled Kenny Boy’s first run for the bench. My gut tells me the judge owed Mrs. Oppenheimer, big time. Why else would the yutz sign this thing? Okay. Now you two boys in blue need to leave. My client and I have to talk. In private.”

After Christine finishes up with her lawyer, we shuttle her back to Beach Lane.

“Do you need to be anywhere right now?” Ceepak asks, once Christine is back inside the house with Dr. Rosen.

“Nope,” I say.

Yes, it’s Saturday, around 5 P.M. and, once again, I have no date. Maybe, once this restraining order dealio is done, I should follow up on Mrs. Ceepak’s advice. Ask Christine out.

“Rita is working the Early Bird dinner shift at Morgan’s Surf and Turf,” says Ceepak, explaining why he isn’t rushing home. “I’d like to swing by the boardwalk. Check out the Free Fall. Make certain they are obeying our shutdown order.”

So we head back to Pier Two.

When we walk up to the towering ride, it’s still idle.

But there is a new sign dangling off that chain barrier: “Opening next weekend!”

Bob, the manager guy, comes strolling over when he sees us checking out the ride.

“Howdy, guys. Been meaning to call you two. We’ve hired an operator who fulfills all your requirements. He’s a carnie from up north. He’ll be here next weekend.”

“Has he been trained and certified by the manufacturer?”

“Yep. Trained at their factory in Sandusky, Ohio. He faxed us a copy of his license and the factory certification.”

“We’ll need a copy of it.”

“Sure. I’ll fax it over first thing Monday. You’ll get a kick out of it, too.”

“How so?”

“Guy has the same last name as you.”

“Come again?”

“Our new operator. His name is Joseph Ceepak. Any relation?”

Ceepak’s face goes ghostly white.

“Yes. He is my father.”

Ceepak spends every free hour the next week preparing for “the imminent invasion” of Joseph Ceepak.

“I knew this day would come the moment Mother made the decision to move to Sea Haven. The money she inherited is simply too tempting a target for my father to ignore.”

True. With Adele’s millions, Joe “Six Pack” Ceepak could buy his own beer distributorship.

The last time his father was in town, Ceepak had an Emergency Restraining Order issued to keep his father away from his immediate family-him, his wife Rita, and his adopted son T.J. Mrs. Adele Ceepak was never listed on that order because she wasn’t even in New Jersey at the time. Plus, as Honest Abe Ceepak reminds me, there never was a judicial hearing to turn his ERO into an FRO, a Final Restraining Order.

“Sadly,” he says when we discuss it over a beer one night, “due to my lack of follow-through on the matter, my father has every right to seek gainful employment here in Sea Haven.”

“But he promised us,” I say. “When you saved his sorry life after that nutjob shot him. He said he’d never darken your door again. He gave us his solemn word he’d leave your mother alone.”

“So he did, Danny,” says Ceepak grimly. “So he did.”

I guess Ceepak knows that every vow his father has ever made to him was nothing but hot, boozy air.

Meanwhile, I’m served a subpoena to appear in Judge Ken Guarnery’s courtroom on Friday morning at 8:30 A.M. to give testimony in the matter of Shona Oppenheimer v. Christine Lemonopolous.

Thursday night, a little after 8 P.M., I swing by the Rosen house to see how Christine is holding up.

The first thing I notice in the driveway is a brand-new electric wheelchair with a reinforced metal frame and big balloon tires like on a dune buggy.

“Nice, hunh?” says Monae Dunn, as she comes out to the porch. “Michael sent it. You are looking at a ten-thousand-dollar motorized beach wheelchair.”

“Seriously? It looks like a moon rover.”

“Uhm-hmm. You need tires that size on account of all the sand. And you steer it with that joystick thing right there. Michael wants to go ‘walking on the beach’ with his father to tell him his and Andrew’s ‘big news.’ He’s flying in from Hollywood first thing tomorrow morning. Taking the redeye.”

“Michael bought that high-def TV for his dad, too, right?”

“Uhm-hmm. And the satellite dish. And the exercise bike. He even sent a box of those Omaha steaks last week. Michael is extremely generous. But, between you and me, I think it’s because he feels so guilty.”

“About what?”

“Not being here like his brother.”

“Maybe,” I say because I find it helps to be noncommittal when listening to gossip. “Is Christine around?”

“Uhm-hmm.” She nods toward the door.

I head inside. I walk even though I’m half-tempted to test out Dr. Rosen’s brand-new moon rover, see if those balloon tires could haul me up the steps like an ATV.

Dr. Rosen is in his regular wheelchair, spooning a bowl of thick soup out of a bowl resting on a table attached to its armrests. Christine is sitting beside him with a cloth napkin, ready to mop up any spills.