Chapter 28
The cough persisted and did not respond to the usual medications.
It became more worrisome when Eleanor began spitting mucus.
Her fevers and headaches came and went, but always returned with sweating, followed by chills.
She complained of a heavy chest and difficulty breathing.
Her appetite was gone and she refused everything but the ginger cookies and green tea.
She was fatigued but couldn’t sleep because of all the coughing.
Two days after Christmas, Dr. Lilly informed Simon that she had pneumonia, but it was under control.
A few rounds of strong antibiotics should do the trick.
Simon was practically living at the hospital, where he camped out in a waiting room. A couple of her girlfriends from the “poker club” showed up, but they were not allowed into her room.
After ten hours on the ventilator, her lungs were filling up faster than they could be drained.
Simon whispered in her ear and, for the first time, there was no response.
He huddled with Dr. Lilly who said, “She cannot breathe on her own. I’m afraid she’s choking. There is virtually no brain activity.”
Simon was well aware that what he said and did in the next few hours would probably be reviewed by lawyers, so he said as little as possible.
Then Dr. Lilly said, “Let’s wait a few more hours.”
Simon mumbled a soft “Okay.” He left the hospital, drove to his office, and tried to nap.
Tillie woke him up and said he was needed at the hospital. He asked her to go with him. He might need a witness, though that was not mentioned. As always, he carried his briefcase. In it was the file with the advance directive and power of attorney signed by Eleanor.
Her condition was even more hopeless. Even with the ventilator at full throttle, her frail and aged body could barely breathe. Her brain had already ceased showing any activity, and her lungs and heart were working only with the aid of a machine.
Dr. Wilkes said, “Simon, it looks like the decision is yours.”
He had been anticipating this moment and was already shaking his head. “No, I’m not doing that, not going there. It’s a medical decision.”
Dr. Wilkes said, “The advance directive is quite clear. No resuscitation, no ventilators, no feeding tubes, no device to prolong a heartbeat.”
“I know, I wrote it. But I’m not making the decision. I’m not a blood relative and I do not feel comfortable being in this room.”
Dr. Lilly tossed the advance directive on the table and said, “Okay, let’s meet here at eight in the morning.” He walked out of the room, followed by two other doctors and Loretta Goodwin.
The same group reconvened at eight the following morning. Dr. Lilly said, “The patient’s condition has not improved, in fact it’s only worsened. She can’t breathe by herself and the monitors show no brain activity. It is my advice to turn off the ventilator.”
Dr. Wilkes said, “Mr. Latch?”
“I’ll follow the advice of my client’s medical team. Do you all agree?”
Everyone nodded in agreement. Simon retired to the cafeteria and tried to drink some coffee. Ninety minutes passed before Loretta Goodwin walked in and whispered, “It’s over.”
Eleanor Barnett was pronounced dead at 10:02 A.M., December 30, 2015, at the Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital.
Simon went to the main office to plow through the paperwork with Dr. Wilkes and her staff. She said, “I’m sure you’ve made final arrangements.”
“I have, with Cupit 10:26 to be exact, according to the phone records that would be analyzed for months.
The person who made the call was thought to be a male, though that was never certain.
The anonymous voice was obviously disguised.
The call bounced off a tower on top of the hospital.
A cheap burner phone, probably tossed in the pond after the call.
It was recorded and listened to a thousand times:
“Eleanor Barnett just passed away at Blue Ridge Memorial. The doctors say it’s pneumonia. But her death is suspicious. It should be investigated.”
The 911 dispatcher called the Braxton Police Department and sent the recording to a Detective Roger Barr.
At the moment, Barr was the only detective on duty.
If the BPD had a homicide unit, it was Barr.
The last murder had been seventeen months earlier and witnessed by four people, so the investigation had been easy.
Barr listened to the recording, then listened again with his chief, who shrugged and said, “Give it a go.”
Detective Barr called the hospital, talked to Dr. Wilkes, got enough details, and drove to the funeral home of Cupit & Moke.
He was loitering in the front parlor when Eleanor was rolled through the back door and taken to the cooling unit.
An elderly secretary brought forth Mr. Douglas Gregg, the owner and mortician, in his daily black suit.
He smiled and asked, “How may I help you?”
Barr, in his customary battered navy jacket, wrinkled khakis, and worn cowboy boots, said, “Sure, thanks, so what are your plans right now with Ms. Barnett?”
“She is to be cremated and buried next to her husband at Eternal Springs Cemetery.”
“Okay, and who’s in charge of her arrangements?”
“Mr. Simon Latch, her attorney.”
“Heard of him, but don’t know him. Look, hold off on the cremation until I find Mr. Latch, okay?”
“Certainly, Officer. We never rush these things. Is there a problem?”
“Don’t know yet.”
Simon was at his desk examining an egg salad sandwich that had been in the fridge for at least two weeks.
Store-bought. Surely there were enough chemicals in it to ward off spoilage, but there was a strange, tangy smell to it.
There was nothing else in the fridge, at least on his side.
On Tillie’s side there was an impressive row of veggie drinks and fruit flushes, all of which were working superbly.
How could he be thinking of her figure at a time like this?
Eleanor Barnett had just died. She had been a huge part of his life for the past nine months and would, most likely, dominate his future.
He had warm feelings for her and a great deal of sympathy, a lovely woman who spent her last years with no family and few friends.
He was also relieved to be free of the worries and responsibility of her care, though tidying up her affairs might take years.
He wouldn’t miss the lunches, though some were enjoyable.
He fought off his emotions by telling himself that Netty lived a long, happy life and died with little suffering. He doubted he would see his eighty-fifth year.
Tillie interrupted his solitude by tapping on the door as she entered with the look that only meant trouble. She handed him the business card of Detective Roger Barr, Braxton Police.
“What does he want?”
“Wouldn’t say. I’m going to lunch.”
Barr settled into his chair in such a way as to reveal a black Glock on his hip. What an amateur. Simon had never met him, but then he tried to avoid criminal work.
Barr’s thick mustache covered his top lip. From under it the gruff words came out: “Just left the funeral home. What’s the hurry with cremating Ms. Barnett?”
“She died two hours ago. How did you get involved so soon?”
“That’s my business, Mr. Latch. Are you in a hurry or something?”
“Not at all. When she was pronounced dead, I called the funeral home. That’s what usually happens. Either the family or the hospital will make the call.”
“Are you family?”
“I am not. There is no family to speak of.” Everything about Barr was irritating. His sudden involvement, his cocky smirk, as if he knew something fishy was in the works. Simon decided to push back. “What’s your involvement with Ms. Barnett?”
“Right now, nothing but a lot of curiosity. The death certificate says she died of pneumonia, that right?”
“What’s your question?”
“Did she die of pneumonia?”
“Look, I’m not a doctor and I didn’t sign her death certificate. If it says pneumonia, then it’s pneumonia. Why don’t you ask her doctor?”
“Oh, I will. I have a lot of questions. But for now, let’s hold off on the cremation, okay?”
“By what authority are you making this request?”
“I’ll get a court order. What’s the big hurry?”
“There is no hurry. I’ve never been in this position before. The hospital released the body to the funeral home, and Ms. Barnett’s advance directive calls for a cremation, then a burial. I’m just following my client’s wishes.”
“Got that. I’ll get a court order anyway.”
Simon was exasperated and trying to think two steps ahead. A court order might mean more publicity, and for some reason that was not what he wanted. He said, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll call the funeral home and tell them to wait.”
“I’ve already done that.”