Valerie Wolzien - Death In Duplicate

“Why? Did you choose your own shifts?” Susan asked. She had no idea if this was important information, but she was curious.

“I did. I prefer working during the day. Not just because it’s easier to stay on schedule, but because there is more interaction with the residents. And Mike was hired to work the night shift. He was the only male aide and there was only one male nurse at P.I.C.C. Many of the male residents preferred the help of people of the same sex with some of the more personal aspects of their care-bathing, dressing and undressing-and most of that took place during the night shift.”

“So he was hired for that shift.”

“Yes. And sometimes I stayed late and ate dinner with him. Which is what I was planning to do that night.”

“Because you were worried about him.”

Shannon sighed and dipped her tea bag in and out of her mug. “Yes.”

“Because he had been involved in drugs before and you were worried that he was again.”

“Yes.” She picked up the bag, wrung it out and placed it on the edge of the empty fruit plate. “He really screwed up his high school years. Mike is very artistic, but shy and a little lost. He went from a small junior high to a huge urban high school and, unfortunately, found himself with a gang of kids who expressed themselves doing various illegal things-recreational drugs and graffiti mostly. But Mike was never a lucky kid. He was with the group painting the underpass when the police caught them. And he was the one who became addicted to drugs.”

“Not an unusual story,” Susan said. For years she had watched children from one of the most affluent communities in the country grow up and make bad decisions about their lives.

“No, but Mike had changed. He was lucky enough to get a good probation officer and he cleaned up his act. Went into drug treatment, started going to NA meetings, got a job.”

“At P.I.C.C.”

“Yes. And things had been going well for months. Then he started acting… well, acting weird.”

“How?”

“It’s hard to explain. Mike smokes so he was always out behind the kitchen on his breaks. It’s the designated smoking place for staff. But suddenly he wasn’t there and I couldn’t find out where he was. That was what I first noticed. And then, when we were together, he talked about how being around so many old people bothered him. I can understand that. Working with the elderly isn’t for everybody, but it hadn’t bothered Mike when he started. I didn’t know why it would bother him all of a sudden. Of course, I didn’t know what was going on at the time then.”

“And what was that?”

“That’s what Mike told me this evening. He says he was getting upset because Mrs. Hershman had asked him to help her kill herself.”

“Did he say more than that?”

“Not much. I didn’t even know that she and Mike had developed any sort of special relationship, but he says they had. That… well, that she was having trouble sleeping and… well, he said he had scored her some extra sleeping pills.”

“Not quite within the rules of P.I.C.C.”

“No, of course not. But Mike never was good at following the rules. Anyway, he had a lot of sympathy for her and spent a lot of time talking to her late at night when the pills didn’t work. He said she asked him to help her kill herself. If he had worked there longer, he would have known that this isn’t an unusual request. A number of our residents are afraid of pain.”

“Don’t they get medication for that?”

“Of course they do. P.I.C.C. is an enlightened place. There is no reason for anyone with a terminal illness to suffer needlessly. But apparently Mrs. Hershman was ready to die. At least that’s what she told Mike. She said she was lonely, unhappy. I don’t remember everything. Just that she asked him to help her die. It upset him a lot and he says that’s why he was acting so strangely the week I thought he had started using drugs again. Anyway, he told her he couldn’t do it and she told him that she understood. He asked her if there was anything he could do and she said she was tired of being cooped up at night and asked if he could get the key to the roof so she could go up there and look at the sky.”

“And he did.”

“Yes and then she was killed.”

“Did he know who might have killed her?”

“He says no.”

“Does he think she might have asked someone else to end her life and set this whole thing up?’

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think he would talk to me?”

“I don’t know that either.”

DESPITE HER INTERRUPTED NIGHT’S SLEEP, SUSAN WAS ON the road by ten the next morning. She had gotten up early and, after making a dozen phone calls, had found three people who were willing to “contribute” to the eulogy she claimed to be writing. Among those three were two women who were the Baineses’ former next-door neighbors. She was going to see them first.

Sheets of paper printed from MapQuest’s Web site had slipped from the passenger’s seat to the floor when she braked suddenly to avoid a large purple tractor trailer that had swerved into her lane, but she was fairly sure of her route. Before moving to Hancock the Baines had lived near the border that Connecticut shared with Westchester County, New York. It was a rural area and Susan was enjoying the meandering roads when she spied a familiar name on a street sign. Brampton Lane. She turned right onto a narrow road. On her left, a stream twinkled in the midday light, the first wild greens of spring lining its banks. On the right, walls of stone and wooden fences protected homes worth millions of dollars. Many of the homes bore elegant names; some displayed street numbers as well. She was looking for number twenty-three. One hundred and nine… Ninety-nine… Eighty-seven… A long row of houses without apparent numbers… Thirty-three… Thirteen… Susan slammed on the brakes. She’d missed it!

A loud blast came from the green BMW behind her and she reluctantly put her foot on the accelerator. Brampton Lane was too narrow for a U-turn. She drove slowly and wasn’t surprised when the car zoomed around her, honking loudly. She ignored the driver’s incredibly rude gesture and searched for a driveway to turn around in.

Brampton Lane ended abruptly and Susan found herself facing a stone mansion and the choice of turning either right or left onto Fern Lane. She frowned, glanced in her rearview mirror, and made an illegal U-turn. She watched for number thirteen and saw that there was a long driveway after the white colonial that carried that unlucky number and before number thirty-three. She turned, discovered what she had mistaken for a driveway was actually a private road leading to four large homes. It appeared to be some sort of development. All the houses were colonial style, all were brick with white trim, all had been built within the last few years, and all were massive with wings extending in numerous directions and four- or five-car garages peeking out from behind. And, happily, they all had mailboxes on the street-numbered mailboxes! She realized she was about to pass number twenty-three, made a sharp right between tall brick pillars, and drove up a wide brick driveway. Two chocolate labs appeared around the corner of the house and dashed across the lawn, barking happily. A tall redheaded woman wearing black wool slacks spattered with soil and a bright Dale of Norway ski sweater followed the dogs.

“Don’t worry. They’re friendly,” she called out as Susan pulled her car over and stopped.

Susan took her at her word and got out to greet the animals and their owner.

“You must be Daria Woods.”

“And you must be Susan Henshaw. Come into the house. I’m dying for some coffee… unless you would prefer tea?”