The Ice Storm Murders Read online

  "I'll give her another shot of antibiotic now, and if she's able, you encourage her to drink, even sips will help if they're frequent enough. She doesn't have any heart issues, does she?"

  "I don't know."

  "I'll check her medicine cabinet."

  A drugstore-worth of prescription medications tumbled out when she opened the door of the cabinet. Most of them were psychotropics of one sort or another—anti-depressives, anxiolytics, sleeping pills. Many containers were almost full and had different doctors' names. She spent a lot of time trying to feel better, Anne thought. One prescription stood out—oxycontin, responsible for an epidemic of addiction. Half of the pills were missing, but the date was a month or so prior.

  "Brad, can you come in here?"

  "What's the matter?" he said, leaning with arms propped on the door frame.

  "She was on all these meds?"

  She gestured at the vials and bottles lined up on the counter, and he picked up a random medication, set the vial down, and picked up another. He shook his head again. "Christ, no. What are they all for?"

  "Mostly depression, and anxiety. None cardiac. She's been doctor-shopping."

  "What?"

  "Seeing different doctors and getting different meds from each of them. One of them gave her oxycontin."

  "Oxycontin. Isn't that—"

  "Yes. One of the ones implicated in the addiction epidemic. But only about half of them are missing, and the prescription is old. Did you know she had it?"

  "No, no. Why do you ask that?"

  "Something sedated David, perhaps these pills."

  He gasped and stepped back from her, shaking his head. "No. No. I, we didn't do anything."

  "Does she take oxy?"

  He shook his head again. "No. Mom prefers booze to pills. She told me she'd rather be drunk than stoned."

  "I don't see anything to treat a heart condition, but she uses puffers. Did she smoke?"

  "Up to about five years ago."

  "Did her doctor say she had chronic lung disease."

  "He said chronic bronchitis."

  Anne checked the vials of pills for the most recent dates and dumped the rest into the wastebasket and carried it with her into the bedroom. Andrea stirred.

  "Andrea," Anne said. "Can you talk to me?"

  A paroxysm of coughing turned Andrea's lips blue. Anne put an arm around her, sat her further up in bed and tucked another pillow behind her back.

  When Andrea's gasping changed to harsh, regular breaths, Anne said, "Do you take all the pills in your cabinet, Andrea?"

  "Only Doctor Bassett's," she said, her words coming in harsh gasps.

  Doctor Bassett's were the latest and included Oxycontin.

  "Only one more question. Are you taking Oxycontin?"

  "Some, but none this week."

  "Okay. I'm going to give you another needle."

  Anne shot another dose of antibiotic into Andrea's wasted thigh. The skin, wrinkled and soft, was that of a much older woman.

  Andrea closed her eyes and relaxed back into the higher pillow. Anne drew Brad across the room. "She's struggling, but I'm afraid to give her morphine, not knowing what she's taken already. Stay with her and if she worsens call me."

  "What do I look for?"

  "Longer coughing spells, blue spells, more difficulty breathing. I'll be back."

  "Can't you stay?"

  "I'm checking on Hamish and Carmel. They're sick too."

  She paused at the door. Brad held his mother's hand and folded over it, laying his forehead against her palm. She hadn't seen that sort of emotion from him before.

  She needed to talk to Thomas about the Oxycontin.

  Anne tapped on the door of the children's room and peered into the room.

  "Come in," said Eloise.

  She sat in a rocking chair with Olivia, who held a Doctor Seuss book in her lap. Green Eggs and Ham. The children in Anne's practice liked that one. It had even encouraged one boy to learn to read. It was a proud moment for both of them when he read aloud.

  "Shush," said Olivia with one pudgy finger to her lips. "Hamish is sleeping."

  "I'll be very quiet."

  Anne tiptoed to the crib. Hamish lay with one arm outstretched, the other clutching a teddy bear with one floppy ear. A bandage covered the other side of its head. The baby breathed quietly, with no audible wheeze.

  "How long has he been better?" she asked.

  "About an hour, " Eloise said and tucked the blanket around the little boy.

  "Don't let him oversleep the time for his puffers. You can try to give them to him without waking him, if you like."

  "He'll wake up soon, I think."

  "Can you come into the bathroom with me?"

  "Certainly," said Eloise in a puzzled voice. "You stay here and watch Hamish, Olivia."

  "But—"

  "Please."

  Inside the bathroom, Anne asked, "Where do you keep the medications?"

  "Here."

  Eloise brought out a large, grey lockbox from inside the under-sink cabinet and opened it with a key she kept on a chain around her neck.

  "You're quite careful."

  "Yes, I keep my medications in here as well—-aspirin and Tylenol threes for migraine."

  "Could you check everything is there?"

  Eloise placed all the prescriptions on the counter and handed Anne the vial of Tylenol threes.

  "You haven't used many of these."

  "I haven't had a headache for some time. Are you looking for something that sedated Vanessa?"

  "Yes."

  "I didn't kill her, Anne. I didn't."

  Her voice broke, and tears filled her brown eyes.

  "I have to check everywhere."

  "Yes."

  At the door to the bathroom, Olivia scowled at Anne.

  "Why did you make Eloise cry?" she said. "I thought you were nice."

  "It's all right," said Eloise. "Anne is nice. She didn't make me cry. Aren't you watching Hamish?"

  "He woke up, and he wants his bottle."

  "I'm coming."

  She scooped the medications back in the box and locked it.

  "Is that all?"

  "I'll check Hamish's chest, now that he's up."

  The baby still breathed too rapidly but didn't struggle as much. A few wheezes remained in his lungs.

  "Not too bad. Keep up the puffer, every one-two hours now."

  "I will."

  Eloise lifted Hamish into her arms and settled back into the rocking chair.

  At the door, Anne paused. They were safe for now. She turned the thumb lock in the door handles and ran down to the kitchen to get some food for Carmel.

  Thomas and Mike climbed the oak stairs, the treads worn by the passage of almost ninety years, to the door to the attic. Faint echoes of green paint clung to the old wood. An iron key of ancient design hung on a wooden peg. Mike turned the key; the lock protested with a metallic screech.

  Inside, dust motes, disturbed by their feet, floated like fireflies in light from a south window. Stacks of crates, some wooden, some cardboard, lined the room. Abandoned desks, lamps, even an elegant side-board in mahogany leaned against each other in a pile in the centre.

  "Where did you stash it?" said Thomas.

  "I loaded the boxes near the door last, and I think that's where the old equipment is."

  They searched, Thomas at one end of the stack, Mike at the other.

  In one box, labelled fine dishes, Thomas found a set of twelve plates in an art deco design. He turned one over and read Clarice Cliff, May Avenue. The pattern resembled that painting Anne liked so much—Street in Glen William by a Canadian artist. A curving street and trees in autumn oranges and yellows. Anne would know something about the porcelain too. In other boxes, he found more of the same pattern, including a tea set. Perhaps he would buy the china from David when this was over, a gift for Anne.

  "Tom."

  "Yeah."

  "I found it."

&nbs
p; A battered black metal box and a freestanding microphone sat in a wooden crate.

  "Think it might work?"

  "The old man was using the equipment the day he died so it should."

  "The day he died?"

  "Yeah. The cops found him slumped over in front of the microphone. He was ninety years old."

  "No suggestion he died from electrocution, then."

  "Hell, no."

  Mike carried the box down to the living room and set up in the front window. Cold air seeped through the frame and under the window. Upkeep a bit behind, Thomas thought. Did David need money? He didn't think so. Likely more time.

  "Why in here?"

  "Open to the north. Maybe we'll get lucky if we can charge her up."

  "What kind of battery?"

  "Just your regular twelve-volt."

  "Is it in the box?"

  "Naw. I took it home. Wouldn't have lasted up there and that seemed like a waste. Coop said I could take what I could use."

  Anne called Thomas from the doorway to the kitchen. "Can you come out here for a moment.”

  The swinging door closed behind her. When he came through, she stood at the window, peering at the falling snow and shaking her head.

  "What's up?"

  "I went through Andrea's stock of pills and found multiple prescriptions for psychotropic medications, from different doctors and pharmacies. A doctor-shopper. One is a bottle of Oxycontin. It's possible it was used to sedate Vanessa and David."

  "Or any of the others?"

  "Yes, she had quite a selection. Brad's surprise seemed genuine."

  "What did you do with them?"

  She pointed to a bag on the counter that bulged with bottles, vials, blister packs, and unopened boxes.

  "You weren't kidding. What are you going to do with them?"

  "Hide them in the pantry. No one else is interested in cooking. Eloise has some Tylenol three's for migraine."

  "Did you take those too?"

  "She's not my patient. Andrea is."

  She put her hand on his arm and cocked her head at him.

  "We should go over what we know."

  "Later. Mike and I found the ham radio set and are going to see if we can get it working."

  "What are the problems?"

  "No battery, for a start."

  "If you need something, I'll search if you want."

  Thomas nodded and pushed through the door into the living room. He had to take her out of there and back to their lives, so she could make her decision.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Anne carried a cup of tea and a quarter-piece of toast upstairs and along the hall to Carmel's room. Trevor's flaming red hair identified him in the dim light from the windows at either end of the hall. He stood with his hand on his bedroom door and waited for Anne. "Did you see her?"

  "Yes. She ate a small cracker and drank some tea. I'm going to try again now."

  "Should I come in?"

  "Yes, but let me be the one to be firm with her. And don't interrupt."

  He opened his mouth to protest but shut it when Anne shook her head at him.

  Inside, she placed the tea and toast beside Carmel's bed and stepped back while Trevor whispered to his wife. Carmel lay still, her eyes focussed on the ceiling or something beyond. He kissed her forehead and perched beside her, holding her hand. "Sweetheart, Anne is here to see you again."

  She turned her eyes towards him but didn't move in the bed. "She made me drink some tea. With milk. What if I gain?"

  "Don't worry. Anne knows what you are afraid of, and she won't make you eat too much. Trust her, Carmel. She's a children's doctor and very kind."

  "Will she help us with Hamish when we take him home."

  "She'll help with all our children."

  He turned back to Anne, tears rolling over his freckled face. "Please."

  "Carmel, I want you to sit up now. Trevor will help you."

  Trevor lifted her shoulders and tucked pillows behind her. Anne sat on the bed with a half-full cup of tea.

  "I brought you some fresh tea."

  "I'm not thirsty."

  "Of course, you're not. Your body is confused and can't tell thirsty from not thirsty. But I've been keeping track, and I understand how much you should be drinking. Here you go."

  Carmel took a reluctant sip from the cup and offered it back to Anne.

  "Some more and then I have a triangle of toast for you."

  "Bread is the worst. I'll—"

  "No, you won't. Remember you have to eat or no one will let you adopt."

  "You'll tell them I'm okay."

  "No, I won't, unless you are eating and drinking more. Try again."

  Anne gave her back the cup. After Carmel sipped twice and pushed the cup back at her, Anne handed her the toast.

  "No."

  "Yes."

  Carmel nibbled, swallowed, twisted her upper lip as though something dreadful fouled the toast, and swallowed. "I can't—"

  "You must."

  Afterwards, back in the hall, Anne said, "Stay with her for the next hour. I don't want her to vomit that up. I'll be back."

  "Thank you, thank you."

  "You're welcome. Now go back in."

  Back in the kitchen, she wondered where he had been before she encountered him in the hall. In fact, where had he been most of the afternoon?

  Mike and Thomas set up the old ham radio set on a card table in the living room. Faint light from the ice-laden window fell across the temporary work-bench.

  "I'll get a lantern," said Mike.

  By the time he returned, Thomas had set up the equipment. Dials were located on the front of a battered black-metal box. Tethered to it were a telegraph key, a loudspeaker and a microphone. A connection snaked out from the back for a battery. Mike shone the light on the wire. "So what will we do for a battery?" he said.

  "How many volts?"

  "Anything up to twelve, but I couldn't find any in the workroom in the basement."

  "What about in the shed?"

  "Naw."

  Thomas rocked back on his heels.

  "What about the ATVs," he said.

  "We made need them to get out when the storm passes."

  "We won't draw much, and only two of us need to go."

  "Which two?"

  "Decide later."

  "I'll pull a battery out of the small one."

  Thomas waited. What about Anne's decision? Could he live in Canada most of the time? The property in Vermont weighed on his mind. The simplest thing to do was gift it to Daniel and the girls, but they wanted him to live there, to be there when they wanted to come home. That was not going to happen, even if he retired. He could run the business from Toronto and New York. Would Anne agree to that? He could install a caretaker couple in the house in Culver's Mills.

  Mike pushed through the door from the kitchen carrying the battery.

  "Here goes," he said when he connected the wires and flipped the switch. Static roared out of the speaker.

  "We're in business," Thomas said.

  Back in their bedroom, Beth slumped into a low chair near the fireplace. Kevin stirred up the embers and, when flames licked upwards, added birch bark and two pieces of cedar, shims from some construction project; the room filled with the warming scent of burning maple and the comforting crackling of the flames. She leaned back and closed her eyes as the warmth of the fire floated over her.

  "Every time," she said. "Every time I try to talk to Brad about Mom, he turns it on me. What I haven't done. How badly I've treated her. How about how she treated me?"

  "What has she done, Beth?"

  "She's a drunk and an embarrassment—"

  "No, love. What has she done to you? To hurt you, not herself."

  Beth's tears flooded down her face.

  "She never loved me. Just Brad, and now Hamish. Not me and certainly not Olivia. Nothing I did was ever enough. I wasn't smart enough, or pretty enough, or popular enough. And now I haven't any ch
ildren, and she takes that as a personal affront."

  "Why?"

  "She wants a dynasty to continue Dad's name."

  "That's a bit strange since it's not even her family."

  Beth went on, lost in her memories of childhood.

  "She always drank too much, always humiliating me in front of my friends. No one wanted to come to my house. Brad's friends did. But they laughed at her and Brad never understood that."

  Kevin drew her up from the chair and sat beside her on the bed. She sobbed against his shoulder.

  "You felt she didn't value you?"

  "I know she doesn't. She never said she loved me. Not once. Not ever. Not in a note, not on a card, not to my face. Never."

  "We don't have to visit anymore. Whatever you want to do."

  "I don't know. I don't know."

  "I love you."

  "And I love you and your mom and dad, and your sisters."

  "They want to be your family, but you've kept them at arm's length.”

  "Afraid."

  "Afraid?"

  "Of rejection, I guess. But I'll try to move past that feeling."

  She clung to him, breathed in his familiar fragrance of leather and some sort of spice and something just him, safe and secure. Her pain drifted away. She jolted out of the drowsy haze. They still had to do something about Andrea.

  Andrea's struggling gasps filled the room with pain. Brad sat beside her as the frail chest rose, and he waited for the gasp that would take in her next breath. How had it come to this? She was well when they arrived. Was she? He shook his head. He was going to lose her and Beth blamed him. Blamed him for not helping her with the drinking problem. Her addiction. He needed to face it. She ran into the storm with a little child, and that was on him. He bought the booze she guzzled day and night. That was on him, too. And he fed her paranoid fantasy about David. She and he couldn't look after a small child.

  He plodded to the window, a heavy weight bearing down on his shoulders. What should he do? He couldn't tell her there was no hope. No hope for her to get Hamish and her plan for Carmel to adopt the boy was foolish. Carmel couldn't look after a guppy. She might die, too.