A PACK OF SCOUNDRELS
by
Maureen Mackey
"What I’m really trying to say, Aunt Martha, is that I don’t believe Grandma’s death was an accident at all! I believe it was nothing less than murder—the cold, calculated murder of an innocent old woman."
Martha put down her needlework and regarded her young guest thoughtfully. Though she wasn’t really Emily’s aunt, she’d known Emily since the girl was an infant, and had held the honorary title so long it seemed only natural to both of them for Emily to use it.
Martha spoke gently, because she could tell Emily was close to hysteria. "Would you like another oatmeal cookie, dear? I don’t think they feed you well enough in those college dormitories."
"Aunt Martha, didn’t you hear what I said? " Emily’s face was flushed. "I’m telling you, Grandma was murdered. Killed. Poisoned, probably, like some sort of rat, and left to die. It’s the only explanation."
"And just who would want to kill Julia Wetherby?" Martha placidly resumed her needlework.
Emily ran her fingers through her long dark hair. "I don’t know. Maybe it was her doctor. I never did like him. Always seemed way too impatient with her, and that nurse of his—definitely not a candidate for the caring professions! Maybe someone came in her window while she was sleeping, and gave her a fatal dose of something."
Martha placed her needlework on the table before her and leaned forward to grasp both of Emily’s hands in hers. "My dear," she said gently, "no one was more upset about your grandmother’s death than I was. She was a very dear friend of mine for over forty years. I knew her illness was terminal, and I am trying to be glad for her sake that her pain is over. Yet I can’t help feeling sorry, mainly for myself, because I will miss her, as I know you will.
"But, Emily, everyone has to die, even someone as good as your grandmother. Blaming someone for her death isn’t going to bring her back. You must learn to accept the fact that she’s gone, grieve, and carry on with your own life. It’s what she would have wanted."
Emily pulled her hands away. "You don’t believe me, do you? Just like the doctor, so quick to sign the death certificate and not ask any questions. He said she died from a self-administered overdose of sleeping pills. I know that’s not true, it can’t be true—that’s suicide! Grandma would never have done that. She was always reading her Bible, and I know she would have said suicide is a sin against God and nature."
"Maybe it was an accident. She could have gotten confused."
"I don’t believe that, either. I saw her that night, and she was no worse than usual. We played cards, we talked, we laughed about something that happened to me at school—" Emily buried her face in her hands and sobbed. "Something’s wrong," she said, her voice muffled. "I’m sure of it, even though I can’t tell you exactly what happened."
She looked up, her eyes pleading. "Please help me, Aunt Martha. Julia trusted you. She used to say she was surrounded by a pack of scoundrels, except for you, her best friend. Won’t you help her now? You’re good at finding things out, like the time you figured out who took that ugly brooch, and when you found the Swanson’s kidnapped dog. You’ve got to help me find out the truth. For Grandma’s sake."
A sigh escaped Martha’s lips. What did the child think she could do, anyway? Still, she had to admit that Julia Wetherby’s death had surprised her a bit, too. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions, discreetly of course. Sally Wetherby, Emily’s mother, could probably use some help with the funeral arrangements. Poor Sally, it hadn’t been that long since she was arranging another funeral, her husband’s. Sally had never been quite the same since Phil’s sudden death from a heart attack, and another death so soon must be a terrible shock. I’ll offer my help, Martha decided, and see what, if anything, I can find out in the process.
"It was a lovely funeral, Sally," said Martha, unpinning a black hat from her hair. "I never realized how many friends Julia had. We’re all going to miss her so much."
"At times like this I really miss Phil," said Sally, kicking off her pumps and sinking into the sofa. "Of course, I always miss him. Sometimes I don’t think the pain will ever go away."
Martha sat next to Sally and put her hand on the younger woman‘s arm. "It’s been a terrible year for you—first losing your husband, then Julia. She must have been a great comfort to you. She lived with you for seven years, didn’t she? I know Julia could be difficult at times, but I know she appreciated your care. She and Emily were particularly close, weren’t they?"
"Yes," said Sally. "I know I will never replace Julia in my life."
"Let me fix you some tea," said Martha briskly. "It’ll revive you for any visitors who are bound to stop by later. By the way, I noticed your brother-in-law, Paul, at the reception after the funeral. I really didn’t expect to see him. I thought he was somewhere in Europe, writing a novel."
"Oh , he’s been back for a couple of months now. He says he needs to do some research over here, but I think the real reason he came back is because he ran out of money."
"You don’t say. Did he see much of his mother before her death?"
"Why, yes," said Sally. "He came by once or twice. The last time was the night she died, as a matter of fact."
"Pardon me for gossiping, but I don’t suppose his lack of money had anything to do with his visits to his mother, did it? I always thought Julia was rather comfortably well off."
A wry smile briefly lightened Sally’s haggard features. "That’s not gossip, just plain fact. Paul did approach Julia for money, many times. But then, so did Emily, when she needed money for school. In fact, Emily used to try all sorts of tricks to get cash from her grandmother. Baking her favorite double-cream chocolate cake, scouting all over town for a book by her favorite author — Emily was clever." Sally laughed at the memory. "And how she’d get angry when Julia occasionally refused! I think Julia did it just to watch her reaction. When Julia refused to give Emily money for a senior graduation trip to Mexico, Emily wouldn’t talk to her for days. I even saw her spit in her grandmother’s food when she thought no one was looking! Julia just laughed. And Emily got over it."
Sally settled into a more comfortable position on the sofa. "I know she was your friend, Martha, but face it, Julia liked to control people with her money. And it frequently worked. Sooner or later, all of Julia’s relatives approached her for money, because she had buckets of it."
"Did you?"
Sally shrugged. "I don’t think it shows a lot of class to ask an old lady for her money. But Paul had no such scruples. He asked. At regular intervals. And she would have none of it. She always told him a forty-year-old man needed to make his own way in the world. She told him to forget about trying to write the great American novel, and get, in her words, a real job. He could write in his spare time, if he felt he must, she said. That made Paul just livid. He told her that writing was a real job, a full-time job, and that he wouldn’t be able to do it if he was dead tired from working all day. They fought all the time about it, neither one giving an inch."
"Yet he still asked her for money? That must have been humiliating."
"He didn’t see it that way. He felt he was entitled to it. You see, Paul’s father always encouraged him to write, and didn’t mind supporting him occasionally when Paul’s funds got low. Paul figured Julia could advance him some of his inheritance. Julia didn’t see it that way. She wanted him to sweat, build character, as she put it, and forget about what she termed ‘that writing nonsense’." Sally smiled again, for the second time that day. "She was the one who was the character. Enough for the whole family, I’d say."
Martha agreed, and got up to tend to the tea. A condolence call to Mr. Paul Wetherby, she decided, was definitely in order.
The next morning found Martha seated on the vinyl-covered sofa in the tiny living room of Paul’s one-bedroom apartment. Resting in her lap was an elaborate leather-bound and gilt-edged edition of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
"I blush to tell you how long ago it was I borrowed this from your dear mother," she told Paul, who was seated on a canvas director’s chair opposite her. "But I can’t bear to keep it another moment now that Julia is gone. I think it may be quite valuable, and it should go back to the family where it belongs."
"You could just give it to Sally," said Paul. He stifled a yawn and looked at his watch. He was going into middle age gracefully, Martha thought, his hair still dark, his boyish face unlined. It was unfortunate, she decided, that his manners weren’t as charming as his visage.
"Oh, I couldn’t impose on Sally now, dear. She is so distraught. I thought I could give it to you, and you would know what to do with it."
"Yes, well, all right. Thank you for coming." He stood up.
"I also wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your loss. You and your mother must have been close. She often spoke of you."
Paul looked at her directly. "We didn’t get along all that well. We had our differences of opinion."
"I understand you saw your mother the night she died," she pressed on. "What a comfort for you."
"Who told you that?" Paul asked sharply.
"Why, Sally did. Isn’t it true?"
"I suppose so. She probably told you we had words, too. My mother could never accept the fact that I wasn’t a business executive or bank president. I tried to tell her I was content waiting tables if it meant I could write. She just didn’t understand how long it takes to establish yourself in the creative arts."
"No, I suppose Julia wouldn’t. Imagination was never her strong point. I understand your father believed in you, though."
"Yes," said Paul, "he did. Unlike her. I know he would have helped me, if he had been alive. Mother just refused, point-blank. We’ll see what happens now. Yes, from now on things are going to be different."
He seemed to recollect himself. "Thank you for the book, Mrs. Malloy. I’ll see it’s put with the rest of her things."
Martha knew she was being dismissed. She rose and handed him the book. She gathered her purse, and hesitated a moment before speaking again "I really hate to mention it, Paul, but there is something else, something I feel I must say. Your niece Emily has come to me with some strong reservations about the doctor who tended your mother, and his nurse. She caused me to wonder whether medical incompetence may have contributed to your mother’s death. What’s your opinion?"
Paul frowned. "What’s that girl trying to say? That mother’s death wasn’t an accident?"
"I suppose so."
"That’s preposterous!"
"Still, about the doctor—"
Paul paused for a moment. "Well, I can’t say I liked Dr. Cook. Always seemed a shade too arrogant for my taste. And the way he dashed off those prescriptions! I was with him once when he gave Mother a prescription for a pain reliever. I just happened to read it out loud, and when he heard me he quickly snatched it back. Seems he’d written the wrong dosage for a woman in her condition. He acted as if it was no big deal. Damned irresponsible, I thought. I urged Mother to switch doctors, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Loyal, that’s what mother was." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Dr. Cook may be a little hasty at times, but I still can’t believe he’s incompetent enough to have caused my mother’s death."
"Did you notice if she opened a new prescription that night?"
"No. Besides, she never opened her own bottles. Hated the child-proof caps, which Sally always got. She got Sally to do it most of the time, or me if I was around. Or Emily opened them for her. She was her favorite."
He walked over to the door, and held it open. "Don’t pay too much attention to Emily, Mrs. Malloy. She’s probably just being dramatic. She gets that way, you know. Hysterical. And she was closer than any of us to my mother."
"Yes," said Martha sweetly. "I know. But the value of hysteria is so often underrated, don’t you think?" She left with Paul staring after her.
On her way home she stopped in at the law offices of Abernathy and Finch. George Abernathy was the attorney who had drawn up Julia’s will. Martha knew this because he was her attorney as well, and she and Julia had discussed that once. George was a jovial man in his early sixties, who worked in a relaxed atmosphere and had a casual air about him. He ushered Martha into his office, and professed himself glad to see her.
"Well, Martha," said George, " I expect you’re here to ask about the estate of Julia Wetherby. "
"How did you know that?" asked Martha, astonished.
"Well, she left you something, of course. I thought you knew. A first edition of Walt Whitman’s poetry. Very valuable, I’d say."
For second Martha couldn’t speak. Dear old Julia. She’d known how much Martha liked poetry, especially Whitman. Julia may have been ornery, and had her faults like the rest of us, Martha thought, but she had been a good friend. Martha vowed she would keep looking into Julia’s death till she was satisfied there was no foul play involved. She wished she could dismiss that possibility out of hand. Yet an uneasy suspicion was growing in her that perhaps there was something to Emily’s accusations.
"George, I’m curious. As an old friend, could you tell me how the rest of Julia’s estate was divided?"
"Well, now, you know I’m not supposed to divulge that information. But in this case, since we’ll be reading the will to the family this afternoon, and you are one of the beneficiaries, I suppose it’s all right. Very simply, Julia left everything to her two sons, to be divided equally."
"But Phil is dead."
"Indeed. So the whole lot goes to Paul."
Martha gasped involuntarily. "What about Sally?"
"When I said sons, I meant sons. Spouses, long-term girlfriends, etc. are specifically excluded." He leaned over his desk. "I believe that clause was meant to protect the family inheritance from a certain avaricious girlfriend Paul had a few years ago, and Julia feared he would marry."
"Yes, I remember hearing about Celeste. But surely Julia didn’t mean to cut Sally out?"
George shrugged. "I’m sure she didn’t. She probably assumed Sally would benefit from Phil’s share. Phil died just recently, as you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if Julia intended to revise her will, and just didn’t get around to it in time."
Martha decided to be blunt. "Just how much are we talking about?"
"It’s difficult to say for sure, but after the taxes are paid, her holdings liquidated, bonds cashed, stocks sold, insurance policies collected, I’d say somewhere between eight hundred thousand and a million dollars."
Martha’s mind reeled as she left the attorney’s office. A million dollars was a powerful motive. Especially for a man as chronically short of cash as Paul. With that money, he could afford to pay attention to his writing without worrying about working for a long time. Still, she was reluctant to think him capable of such a crime.
She needed to think. She pulled her car into a tree-shaded parking lot, and tried to collect her thoughts. Let’s assume Julia was indeed murdered, she thought. Who could have done it? Paul, who saw her that night? The arrogant doctor, with a careless prescription?
Why not Sally, who also had the opportunity? And of course, Emily. By her own admission, Emily saw her grandmother that night and spoke with her. Sally said Emily wanted money for college, and Martha was sure Julia had a hard time saying no to her favorite relative. Maybe that night, fresh from her argument with Paul, Julia did refuse a request Emily made. Could Emily have purposely overdosed her grandmother in anger because of it?
Martha shuddered at the kind of cold-blooded calculation it would have taken for Emily to kill her grandmother and then divert suspicion by asking for help looking into her death. Still, Martha supposed, it could have happened that way. Emily was known in the family for being very shrewd.
Martha felt a headache starting. There was no time to pay attention to it. She didn’t have very much information about Dr. Cook. She needed more. She looked at her watch. It was almost noon. She decided to go to the good doctor’s office and try to catch him before he went to lunch.
Dr. Cook’s office occupied the whole ground floor of a high rent building downtown. It took Martha a moment to realize that all the deeply upholstered chairs, scattered amidst the potted palms, were empty. A young woman with hair dyed a dull blonde was standing behind the reception counter, placing a framed picture inside a cardboard box.
"Is Dr. Cook in?" Martha asked.
"No, he’s gone today. The office is closed. You missed him. Better luck for you," she added bitterly.
"Are you the receptionist, or the nurse?" Martha ventured.
"Was his nurse is more like it. I’ve been fired."
"Oh dear."
"Besides everything else I was expected to do around here, I guess I was supposed to double-check his prescriptions as well. I ask you, who’s the doctor? Who gets the big bucks? Not me, I can tell you. But I get the blame."
Martha coughed discreetly. "Did you say blame?"
"Yeah," the nurse continued sullenly. "Some old guy died. Official line to the family is his heart was bad, the infirmities of old age, blah, blah. I think the prescription was wrong. Too strong for a ninety-year-old man. I told him that’s what must have happened. He just looked at me funny and said I must be mistaken. Well, there’s one thing I’m not wrong about. Being ‘let go’ is the same as fired, even if he did find me a position in another city."
"And what are you going to do about your suspicions of his malpractice?"
"Nothing. I’ve learned my lesson. If I want to keep my new job I have to keep my big mouth shut. Dr. Cook has a lot of influence, in this town, in the whole state even. He’s been president of the statewide medical association forever. No one is going to listen to me. I’ll just ruin myself."
"But if he was wrong, and someone did die because of it . . ."
"Listen, lady, I’m no Mother Theresa. I don’t believe in sacrificing myself for worthy causes. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the only cause that’s worth my concern. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Dr. Cook can do whatever wants. It’s no business of mine anymore." She wedged one last figurine in the box, a ceramic caricature of a nurse holding a chart, emblazoned at the base with the legend "Nurses Do It With Care." "That’s it. I’m out of here."
She rounded the counter with her box, and headed for the door. "Wait," she said, turning around. "You’re not going to tell anyone what I said, are you? Because if you do, I’ll deny it."
"Don’t worry, dear," said Martha. "I know how to keep a secret."
Martha’s headache refused to recede, despite the ibuprofen tablet she took. She had a solitary dinner, and pondered what she should do next, if anything. The more she delved into Julia’s death, the more troubling was the information she received. Did Dr. Cook make a mistake concerning Julia’s medicine, and did that mistake cause her dear friend’s death? The possibility haunted her. She had to know the truth. Perhaps Sally could show her the bottle, and she could call the pharmacy and ask a few more questions. No matter what she told Dr. Cook’s nurse, she would expose the man’s actions if necessary. Julia's death would not be in vain, she vowed.
Martha’s thoughts went to Sally, alone now that Emily had gone back to college, and how she must be feeling. Sally must have already heard from the lawyer that she received nothing from Julia’s will. If Paul has any decency, thought Martha, he’ll provide for his sister-in-law. After all, it was not as if Sally had a job to support herself. Sally had spent the last seven years tending to Julia, and before that she had devoted herself to raising Emily. Phil had some life insurance, but that wouldn’t last forever.
Life can be spectacularly unfair at times, Martha mused. I’d better drop in on Sally, she thought, and see how she’s taking the lawyer’s news. A phone call wouldn’t do; she must see for herself how Sally was coping. And it would be a perfect time for Sally to show her Julia’s medicine bottle. That is, if she still had it.
Sally answered the door with a box in hand. "Come on back with me," she said. "I’m sorting through Julia’s clothes. Probably headed for the next charity who calls. Unless you’d like to look them over? Some of them are actually quite nice."
"No, thank you," said Martha, following her into the house. By now her temples were throbbing. She should have taken another ibuprofen before she left home. "Sally, you should have called me. I would have helped you with this chore. In fact, I can help you for a while now."
"That’s not necessary. I’m almost done." She shifted the box in her arms. "What did you come here for?" she said abruptly.
"I’m sorry if I’m bothering you. I wanted to see how you were doing."
Sally smiled tightly, turned, and walked back through the house, with Martha trailing.
"I saw Abernathy earlier, and I know what was in the will," Martha continued. "It seems so unfair. I can’t believe my dear friend would let things turn out this way. It makes you wonder a bit about her death, doesn’t it?"
Sally led Martha back into Julia’s former bedroom, and abruptly set the box down on the floor. "It’s Emily isn’t it? She’s come to you with a wild tale about how her grandmother was murdered, and wants you to investigate."
Martha just nodded. Sally let out a sigh of frustration, and ran her hand through her short, sandy-gray hair, her gesture an unconscious emulation of her daughter.
"Emily is having a hard time accepting her grandmother’s death, Sally," said Martha. "She can’t believe Julia would take her own life, accidentally or on purpose. And I must say, I’ve come to agree with her. In fact, I was hoping you could show me Julia’s medicine bottle. There’s some question in my mind about the competency of Dr. Cook."
"And I suppose Emily put you on to that, too," said Sally. Martha nodded. Sally shook her head in exasperation. "That girl is going to drive me nuts. Why can’t she just let Julia go? It’s over now. How Julia died doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that she’s dead. She was old, and sick. It’s for the best."
Martha was at loss for words. A new, unpleasant idea was forming in her aching head. Sally bent over and removed a roll of packing tape and a pair of long sharp scissors from the box, and continued to speak. "It was Julia’s time. Past her time, even. With her son dead, she had no reason to go on living." The tape dropped with a clatter back into the empty box. The scissors remained firmly in her hand, point straight out. Exactly like our mothers told us never to pass a pair of scissors, Martha thought dizzily.
"You said you wanted to help, didn’t you?" Sally looked fixedly at her, scissors tight in her grip. "You can help by forgetting all about Julia’s medicine. Let me get beyond all this, and get my life back to normal. Don’t listen to Emily anymore. That would be a tremendous help."
"You killed Julia, didn’t you?" Martha whispered. "Why?"
Sally just stared at her, mouth open in surprise. Then she took one step closer. Martha instinctively took a step back. "Was it for the money?"
A harsh laugh issued from Sally’s mouth. "I didn’t want that old woman’s money. Not one cent of it! I didn’t care what that clown of a lawyer had to say about the will. Paul’s welcome to Julia’s money — all of it! I never took care of her for her money."
"Then why? Why did you do it? Take care of Julia, I mean. All those years. You sound as if you almost hated her."
Sally advanced another step, scissors still held out ramrod straight. Martha retreated, and found her back against the wall. "I took care of her for Phil," said Sally. "Everything was for Phil. She was his mother. For seven years I endured her incessant chatter, bathed her, fed her, took her to the doctor, got her romance novels from the library. I looked after her as though she was my own mother. I didn’t do it for her. I did it for Phil. And what happened?" She gave Martha a hurt, baffled look. "He died! He died—and still she lived! It’s not right for a mother to outlive her son. She should have died first. Phil and I should have had many more years together, years not raising a child or looking after a parent. It’s not right. She should have died first."
Sally was very close now, the scissors inches away from Martha’s chest, her body blocking Martha’s escape. Her eyes took on a faraway look. "It was so easy. Julia didn’t feel any pain. I went into her room around midnight. She was already half-asleep from her usual dose of sleeping pills. I saw the rest of the pills on the table beside her bed. I took the bottle and put the pills one by one in her mouth. She didn’t protest; she was used to taking medication from me. I gave her water and made her swallow them. It was an impulse, really, and I wasn’t even sure it would work. There didn’t seem to be that many sleeping pills in the bottle. But they must have done the trick . . ." She focused suddenly, intently on Martha’s face. "I just made it right. Don’t you see?"
"Sally, what I see is that you are under a lot of strain. You needed to get some help, some other people in here to help you take care of Julia. It was too much for one person."
"You don’t understand!" Martha could feel Sally’s hot breath on her face, see the wild intensity in her eyes, just inches from her own. "I handled it fine. It just didn’t make sense for her to go on living after anymore. I had to fix it. You think what I did was wrong. You’ll tell everyone, and they won’t understand either. I can’t let you do that, Martha."
Again she raised the scissors. Martha felt the sharp point start to tear through her blouse. All Sally needed to make was one powerful jab. And she looked strong enough to do it . . . The front door banged loudly. "Sally, you have to speak to Emily!" Paul’s voice boomed. "I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at Abernathy’s office today. Your daughter is going around spreading all sorts of rumors about Mother’s death. She’s—"
Sally had frozen a moment at the sound of Paul’s voice. It was enough for Martha to grab her wrist. There was scuffle, and Paul walked in to see Martha slam Sally’s hand against the wall, forcing the scissors to drop. They fell harmlessly to the floor.
Paul stood in the doorway, stunned.
"Help me," said Martha, panting from the exertion of trying restrain Sally. "She killed your mother, Paul. And she’s trying to kill me!"
Sally stopped flailing, and went limp in Martha’s grip. "It doesn’t matter anymore," she said. "Do what you want with me. I don’t care, and I’m not sorry for what I did. I’m just glad it’s over."
Paul made a choking noise. Martha was surprised to see that he was quite agitated and pale. She didn’t realize he was taking his mother’s death so hard.
"How did she . . . ," he started, but he couldn’t continue.
"Sleeping pills," Martha said. "She gave her an overdose."
"But she couldn’t have! I gave her—" he stopped abruptly.
"So that’s why the bottle was nearly empty," said Sally. "I thought that was strange." She started to laugh, a harsh, grating laugh. It soon verged on hysteria.
Martha struggled to stay calm. "Let me see that bottle, Sally."
"Of course," said Sally, still giggling. "I threw it away, but I can find it for you."
Sally rummaged through the trash can by Julia’s former bed, and finding the prescription bottle, tossed it to Martha. Martha scanned the label quickly. Before coming over to Sally’s, she had checked with her own doctor about the medication Julia was taking, particularly what an appropriate amount of the drug would be. These pills were somewhat stronger than Martha’s doctor had recommended for a woman of Julia’s age and condition. The doctor had made an error.
"You all killed her," Martha whispered. The pain from her headache, sharpened by fear, was becoming severe. "You all had a hand in it."
"Yes," Sally agreed conversationally. "And what are you going to do about it?"
Paul, his aplomb recovered, was looking at her speculatively also. Martha realized her position was precarious.
The front door opened again. "Hi, Mom, it’s me." They heard Emily’s voice in the front of the house. "I know I’m supposed to be at school, but I just couldn’t go back yet. Whoa," she said, entering the room. "Why is everybody here?"
"I’m just leaving, actually," said Martha. "And you’re coming with me." She grabbed Emily’s arm and propelled her back down the hall and through the front door. Sally didn’t move, but Paul started after them.
"What are you doing?" said Emily. "You’re hurting my arm."
"Trust me," said Martha, opening her car door and shoving Emily in. Martha slipped her key in the ignition, plunked her foot on the pedal and started her car. As they began to accelerate, Paul caught up with them, and pounded his fist on the window. Emily screamed.
"Don’t worry," said Martha, as they sped down the street and rounded the corner. "We’re on our way to the police station. But before we get there, you have to answer me one question: Did you kill Julia, too?"
"What are you talking about?" said Emily, horrified.
"I’m sorry," said Martha. "Bad joke. I’ll explain in a minute. First, though, do you happen to have any ibuprofen on you? My head is splitting."
Emily stared at her. "No, but I might still have some extra pain pills Grandma gave me. They should work on headaches."
"Did she get them from Dr. Cook?"
Emily nodded.
"No, thanks. I’d better not press my luck any further."
It was the messiest murder trial in the town’s history. Sally was easily picked up by the police. She was still in the house when they came for her. She readily confessed to the crime. Paul tried to flee, and it took the authorities a couple of days to find him. Dr. Cook had a high-powered attorney who managed to get his charges reduced, but his career as a physician was ruined, particularly after his nurse gave public testimony. Paul’s hot-shot lawyer argued that since the actions of so many people contributed to Julia’s death, no one person was responsible. That argument didn’t go over well.
Unlike Sally, who received psychiatric treatment, Paul went to prison. His sentence could become his big break, Martha thought cynically. Writing as a prisoner will give him a certain cachet, not to mention a possible book deal and an agent. Getting arrested could prove to be the boost his career needed.
A few weeks later Martha was walking downtown when she saw Emily emerge from George Abernathy’s office.
"How are you doing, my dear?" Martha greeted her. "I hope you’ve recovered from this nasty business."
"Thank you," said Emily. "I’m doing better."
"She should be," said George Abernathy in a booming voice, as he followed Emily out the building’s revolving glass door. "Thanks to some legalities and a particularly apt codicil in Julia’s will, this little lady just inherited all of her grandmother’s money."
"Mr. Abernathy, please," said Emily, blushing.
"And why should you be embarrassed, I’d like to know? The money should go to someone in the family. And the rest of those scoundrels certainly don’t deserve it." He patted Emily on the shoulder. "Well, I must be off. I have a meeting with a client."
"Scoundrels," Martha considered the word the lawyer chose. "That’s curious. That’s the same word you said Julia used to describe her family."
"Yes," said Emily. "That is a coincidence." Martha was surprised to see the ghost of a smug smile light the younger woman’s eyes. "I never did thank you, Aunt Martha, for all your help. Without you I wouldn’t be where I am today."
That struck Martha with the force of truth. "Emily," she said slowly. "One thing keeps baffling me. Julia was a tough old lady. I know your uncle and your mother confessed to trying to kill her, but the sleeping pills she was given, even from both of them, weren’t all that much. And Dr. Cook’s prescription wasn’t that far off. Julia had a strong constitution. Doesn’t it strike you as strange that something so small as a pill, even several of them, would kill her so easily? And doesn’t it seem a risky way for a would-be murderer to go about things?"
"I agree," said Emily, as she started to walk away with a bounce in her step. "Especially when a pillow works so much better."
The End