I’d said the magic words as far as Martha was concerned. If sweets fueled her body, gossip fueled her soul. I knew she wouldn’t leave now until I’d spilled the beans. So I explained about visiting with Stanley and his dramatic announcement when we were alone in his bedroom. “I know it sounds hard to believe, but he seemed so perfectly lucid. I don’t know what to do. Should I say something to Detective Serrano?”
Martha and Eleanor exchanged glances.
“What?”
“Let’s face it: Stanley was a few sandwiches short of a picnic,” Eleanor said.
I winced. “Don’t talk like that, please.”
“Sorry.”
In my mind’s eye I saw the vast array of bottles on the bedside table. “He was taking a ton of medication. You don’t think that Ruth could have, you know, been tempted to . . . ?”
Martha shook her head firmly as she buttoned up her coat. “Ruth spent an absolute fortune caring for that man. I’ve never seen anyone more devoted. She acted like she wanted to keep him alive at all costs. Round-the-clock medical care, a physical therapist every day, you name it. I don’t see how you could possibly take it seriously.”
Martha edged toward the door. I could see she was on fire to get over to Ruth’s and dive into the middle of the action. She wasn’t about to waste any more time with me.
I frowned. “But what if it was a deathbed statement? What if he was murdered? What if he was being slowly poisoned?”
“I don’t think you should worry about it any more, Daisy,” Martha called over her shoulder as she hurried out, with Eleanor close behind. “See you later?”
I nodded and sucked my finger, where blood oozed out of the cut from the wire.
Chapter Three
That afternoon, I was sitting on a wooden pew in the chapel of the local synagogue next to Joe, still shaken by the speed of events.
I’d closed Sometimes a Great Notion early and put an apologetic sign on the door. I hated to disappoint any customers, but in the winter it was really only the weekends when our little village came alive. I had tried to call Ruth, but Kathleen Brown said she was indisposed. According to Martha, who’d made a futile visit to the house and been turned away, the doctor had given her a sedative and she was lying down to rest.
On the ride over, I’d told Joe about Stanley’s dying declaration. Joe hadn’t been as adamant as Martha that I was barking up the wrong tree, but it was evident that he thought I was reading way too much into one rambling comment by a highly medicated man suffering from the final stages of dementia.
As we waited for the service to begin, I tried to imagine what Ruth’s life must have been like for these past few years in the grueling role of caregiver. How hard was it to change the diaper of a man who had once been your lover?
And Ruth was lucky, if you could call her that, in that she was wealthy enough to afford nurses to give her some respite. What about the people who couldn’t?
I swallowed against a wave of sadness, remembering my last sight of Stanley. The husk of the person I’d known had been lying in that bed, but the kernel was gone.
I slipped my hand into Joe’s and he squeezed back. I mentally said a prayer of thanks. Even though I wasn’t in my own church, I was sure it would be heard somewhere up above.
My husband was very much alive, healthy, and gorgeous. To me, anyway. I held his hand tighter. We could still ride our bikes, make love, savor romantic dinners, and enjoy each other’s company. There was a lot to be thankful for.