They had worked the escape plan out together. But it was Peterson, himself, who had come up with the ingenious parts. The rest of it was the most farfetched idea she ever heard of. One that would take a miracle to pull off.
Thing was, she had twenty-three good reasons to believe in those kinds of miracles. Besides, just because somebody was old didn’t mean they were incompetent. But if he was as sound in his mind as she thought he was...
Why had they put him in the violent ward?
The corridor beyond the green doors was eerily deserted when she stepped inside.
No nurse’s station visible or even an open office door to evade. Still, there were probably cameras somewhere, so she hurried to the last door in a row of elevators and pushed the number six button when she got in. The door rumbled closed with the sound of a freight elevator, and it seemed like forever before it opened again. It was that slow. When it finally did, she found the sixth floor was—like everywhere else—buzzing with activity.
An emergency cart passed by just as she stepped out. But it was in no hurry, as if whatever had gone on was finished now. Ahead and a few yards to the left she saw a busy station with charts and people and equipment, and farther down that same corridor she could see a dozen or more doors with windows for looking in. All were closed except one. Outside it, a small group of doctors and nurses were talking quietly as other workers moved in and out. She was halfway past the station before a nurse looked up with a start.
“How did you get in here?” she said.
“Service elevator,” Dee replied. “Other ones don’t come up this high.”
“There’s a reason for that, young lady. Come back here, right now!”
The medical people, down the hall, looked toward the commotion.
Then a middle-aged woman in an old-style white uniform broke away from them to intercept her. The nurse’s blonde hair was pulled back from beautiful features and there was something oddly familiar about her. Even though Dee had always tried her best to avoid any of the actual medical staff.
They met head on, and Dee mustered her most authoritative tone. “I want to see Nelson Peterson.”
The thought of the old man in some sort of trouble for feeding her so much information, all these weeks, was suddenly extremely unnerving. But from the looks of things, she was going to need some serious help.
“I’m sorry,” said the nurse. “Mr. Peterson died twenty minutes ago.”
The quiet, non-emotional statement hit Dee like a splash of cold water. “What? But…” Her insides suddenly began to churn. How could that happen? “Last week he was fine. He was perfectly fine! And—and—why is he up here in the violent ward?”
The gazes of the two women locked.
“Can I at least see him?” Dee peered over the starched white shoulder toward the open doorway down the hall. Contrary to typical hospital behavior, the remaining staff members around 6B seemed to have their attention centered more on her now, instead of the matter at hand.
“Are you next of kin?” The nurse’s tone was cool.
Dee thought about lying, but evidence gotten by such means never held up in court. Not to mention any personal morals she believed in. “No…just a friend.”
“It’s against policy to let anyone but the next of kin inside.” The woman looked toward the busy station and raised her voice. “Jennifer? Could you escort Miss Parker back to the lounge, please?”
“How do you know my—”
“You’re the only person on his visitor’s list, so I just assumed. If you’d like, I can request that you be notified after arrangements have been made.”
Dee didn’t object. What could she object to? She allowed herself to be led back into the elevator. The dark-haired aide named Jennifer stepped quietly in beside her and pushed the button to the main floor. Probably to make sure she actually left the building. But—like everything else, today—there was something odd about her, too. The proverbial stethoscope was not draped over her shoulders or protruding out of a pocket. What’s more, she had jewelry on and smelled faintly of some expensive perfume. It smelled like... like night blooming jasmine. After the doors closed, the girl reached into the pocket of her blue smock and handed Dee an envelope.
“This is from Mr. Peterson.”
“Thanks.” She shuffled the package that held the clothes Nels was to have changed into, over to her other arm, slipped the envelope into her purse with hardly a glance, and sighed.
Dead—poor Nels! She just couldn’t believe it! Maybe this was all too much for him. The stress of what they had been planning. In which case she would feel utterly and totally responsible for bringing it all on. Then again, maybe he had simply suffered a reaction to some medication and gone temporarily berserk. Had to be restrained, so they brought him up here. Worse yet, what if they somehow found out what he had been telling her and—
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“What? Oh. Probably just another list. He likes to—did like, I mean—to make up lists of things he wanted me to bring for him next time. Last week it was a magnifying glass and a world atlas. But I guess he won’t need whatever it is, now. When did he give you this one?”
“This morning, after I brought him the newspaper. Sort of cryptic, if you ask me. He told me “Give it to Dee Parker when she comes by to see me this afternoon.” And just when I’m wondering why he doesn’t do it himself, he slipped me twenty bucks.”
“He paid money for you to give it to me?”
“He paid me to keep quiet about all his lists. Twenty dollars each so I wouldn’t hand them over to the psychiatric department for screening. Not much in this economy, but I did it mostly as a favor because of his phobia.”
“What phobia?”
“Always worrying they won’t let him have what’s on them. Which they wouldn’t. Cigars and good whiskey are definitely not OK around here. But in my opinion? A man that old ought to be able to smoke or drink anything he wants, if it makes him feel better. He isn’t going to live long enough for it to kill him anyway.”
“So it was a favor, but you still took the money.”
“Hey, this job only pays minimum wage. But where he got all that money we’ll never know, because they don’t let the patients keep any. Especially on this floor. He was a crafty one, though. This was the first time he ever asked me to deliver one of those lists to somebody. That’s probably why he gave me the extra. Then—not two hours later—his heart stopped. Spooky. It was almost like he knew it was going to happen.”
Slow apprehension crept over Dee at the words, accentuated by the vibration beneath their feet as the elevator lumbered its way back down. As long as the aide was giving up information, she’d better continue to press. “What exactly went on back there—do you know?”
The girl shook her head and a fresh waft of jasmine released itself from the straight dark hair. “Beats me. I’m never allowed in the rooms during an emergency. Half of them on that floor I can’t go into at all.”
They finally stopped, and as Dee stepped out, she noticed open-toed sandals instead of the more common, comfort support shoes people who spent most of the day on their feet normally wore. And lavender-painted toenails.
“Jennifer, wasn’t it?” She turned back for another look before the doors closed.
The expression she caught on the girl’s face was one of irritation, but it dissolved quickly into a well-practiced smile.
“Well, thanks for everything, Jennifer.”
Once inside her own little red car, Dee snatched off her hat and tossed it onto the back seat, letting loose a cascade of honey-colored curls. She retrieved the envelope from her purse, glanced once around the nearby cars in the crowded parking lot to ensure no one had followed her, and tore it open.
It was Peterson’s handwriting, all right, but what she saw made her gasp in disbelief and cast another cautious glance around...
Box 127
It’s all yours.
Nels.
“The wealth of the wicked is laid up for the just...”
Her heart began to pound. Something had definitely gone wrong, and he’d seen it coming. But why hadn’t he called her? That’s what the emergency cell phone she gave him was for. She would have been here within an hour—with police. This was so shocking and final. Had he sacrificed himself?
All hers?
She had only known the man a few weeks. He couldn’t possibly mean that.
But what if he did?
The thought gave her an eerie, tingly sensation all over. All of everything? Why, if that was true...she could be wealthy beyond...of course, she shouldn’t take it. Couldn’t even think about it, because...because...well, because why? “
The wealth of the wicked is laid up for the just...”
was a verse of Scripture. She wasn’t exactly sure where in the Bible it was, but she recognized it just the same. Maybe the Lord was trying to tell her something. Only it didn’t feel quite right, somehow.
Then again, everything had felt strange today. So incredibly sad. Lonely, old Peterson...dead. Well. What now? She would have to look into his cause of death. Personal involvement aside, it was her job to look into it. Any good reporter would. She’d bet money Nellie Bly would have done so. That woman was fearless. Especially where any foul play was going on. Well, there was definitely more than a little of it going on here.
Didn’t necessarily mean she was going to accept anything.
3
Tempted
“If there is anyone who can ferret out a mystery it is a reporter.” ~ Nellie Bly
As Dee groped for logical reasons why she should let Peterson’s whole sordid secret die right along with him she began thinking about what kind of good his money, if it existed at all, could accomplish.
Hadn’t she been praying for answers? More importantly, hadn’t she been praying all her life to be able to do big things? And now that the opportunity was here, was she going to say, “Excuse me, God, but I didn’t mean this big?”
This was big.
Her missionary father always said it took integrity to handle large amounts of money. Well, she was the daughter of integrity. Not once had she ever known him to be tempted by the tremendous sums of money that passed through his hands. Though their own lifestyle was extremely modest, her father had made them feel rich in other things. The kind of things she still valued more than money.
Surely, then, if the Lord moved someone into a position like this, it could only mean one thing. This could very well be her “Divine assignment.” The one she had been waiting all her life for.
Divine assignment or a deadly detour.
The only way to find out which one, was to proceed with caution. Wait for a confirmation. Because (to be honest) at the moment the situation seemed more like a temptation in the wilderness than promotion to a higher calling. Not to mention she couldn’t exactly picture herself standing up in the middle of the church congregation to announce she felt led to quit work and spend the rest of her life wealthy beyond belief. Funded by an ex-criminal.
Her poor mother would faint. She had a hard enough time thinking anything good could come out of a decent Christian woman taking a reporter job like this in the first place. And why couldn’t she be like her brothers and do missionary work—that was exciting wasn’t it? Not enough, obviously, since she had been doing that since she was fifteen. Which would always lead to the
where-had-she-gone-wrong
discussion, and the
why-can’t-you-settle-down-and-get-married
sequel.
No, she couldn’t discuss this with her parents yet. They simply wouldn’t understand.
Instead, she would wait until the right thing to do became clear to her. And she would do nothing in a hurry, either. This was a time to proceed with caution and find out what these warning signals going off in her spirit really were.
There was every possibility that Nelson Peterson was as loony as everyone said he was. What then? Maybe he hadn’t meant a word about repenting of his sins and turning over a new leaf that day they had prayed together. After all, a person had to do something very serious to get themselves committed to a mental institution in the first place. So something was definitely off here.
Maybe even
way
off. Which meant the secret had to be kept long enough to prove its validity. One way or the other.
She wasn’t an investigative journalist for nothing. She would keep doing her job the best way she knew how, until she eventually got to the truth of it all. For poor old Peterson, if nothing else. And for her own peace of mind, too. Yes, she felt a little better now. Bottom line? Nothing hasty.
Dee took a deep breath to calm down, slipped the key into the ignition, and started the engine. She backed out of the parking space with a firm new resolve, drove past tiny islands of manicured lawn with dwarfed trees, and headed toward the gated exit. Thank heavens it was Friday. She could pray and mull this thing over all weekend, if she had to. All weekend...
But couldn’t a person get to that little town on the Oregon coast and back in a weekend? That’s what Nels had told her. And that’s all it would take for her to figure this thing out. The treasure was either there or it wasn’t. If it wasn’t, all speculation would be over. Back to Monday morning, as usual. Finished. But if it was there...well, there would be plenty of time to think about that if the time came.
That
Pandora’s
“box” had not been disturbed for well over five years, so it certainly didn’t need to be opened within the next five minutes. That’s saying she could even open it at all. There was still every possibility that Nelson Peterson was the champion liar of the century, too.
But what if he wasn’t?
She better leave tomorrow morning. She might even see if her friend, Marion, could come along to keep her company on the long drive. Not to mention there was safety in numbers. She needed a good excuse to get out of that dingy basement apartment of hers anyway.
Brooding was not good for anybody, no matter what kind of terrible experiences they had gone through. As a matter of fact, a “mission” like this might be just the ticket to snap her out of that despondency that moved in on her like a cloud this time of year, since her husband had died of a heart attack on the first day of an anniversary cruise.