... and the excerpt:
Chapter One
"Put out the light."
Jennifer Connors looked up when she heard Nate's voice, the only dissonant note in the lazy hum of a building at rest. What's he up to? She half rose, then sat back down. This time I'll stay out of it. Outside, wind ranted and rain pelted the windows, but inside Riverview Manor, it was warm and dry. Safe. Such was the carefully nurtured perception.
Jennie was the activities director of the retirement community, a position of slight prestige and no authority. She knew this and didn't care. She loved Riverview's people and marveled at the diverse, sometimes eccentric faces they presented to the world. So, here she was, on a Saturday night in late spring, sorting magazine clippings and listening to an old man declaim Shakespeare in luminous tones.
"Put out the light," she heard again, louder now, eloquently pleading. She smiled, savoring the old actor's ringing tones. He's really on tonight. Anticipating the interruption, she listened to his footsteps approach, but the spare, elegant figure passed her door without a glance.
Her smile faded. He's not acting. He needs something. She waited for someone to respond, but heard only Nate. Angry that no one was paying attention to him, she put aside her papers and headed for the nurses' station, prepared to do battle.
Oregano perfumed the hall. Pizza. They're too busy stuffing their faces to do their job. It'll serve them right if he wakes up everybody in the place. In addition to Nate's voice, she heard a rhythmic banging toward the front of the building. That blasted door again! She hesitated, intending to secure the latch, but decided it could wait. Nate sounded distraught. She rounded the corner and saw that, far from being ignored, he was surrounded by a swirl of activity. Satisfied that he was being taken care of, she went to the foyer. Sure enough, the door was unlatched, swinging outward with each gust of air, banging closed whenever the wind subsided.
She pushed in the knob, held firmly, and jiggled the shaft until she heard a metallic click. The banging stopped, but Nate's unhappy voice persisted.
"Put out the light."
At the end of the corridor was a large open space filled with comfortable, inviting furniture. A big-screen TV dominated one wall. Tucked into the corner was a waist high counter with a clear but unobtrusive view of the area. A flat box containing the fragrant pizza languished on the counter while staff members darted from light to light, switching off each in turn, then looking hopefully at Nate, but still he pleaded, "Put out the light."
The one quiet figure in the tumult was Martin Willis. He stood watching, his arms folded against his chest, dressed in his usual baggy, tan-colored work pants and shirt. A belt, pulled tight around his middle, caused the clothes to puff, creating the look of a balloon sculpture. His hair was iron gray, his age indeterminate, but obviously past the usual time for retirement. Not that anyone ever wondered about this or anything else concerning Martin. Finally he spoke: "Maybe he means the TV."
"It's worth a try." Jennie was too concerned about Nate to be surprised that the handyman was working on a Saturday night. She located the remote and pushed a button, causing the flickering screen to darken.
Nate rolled his eyes, a caricature of a wise man at the mercy of fools.
The melodrama of the situation convinced Jennie that the former actor was up to his old tricks. "Let me handle it," she said to the nurse in charge, adding in a lower voice, "One person has a better chance of calming him down. You know how he plays to a crowd."
Nurses and aides went back to the pizza.
Alone with Nate, Jennie said, "Show me which light."
He turned and started down the hall. Though dressed in street clothes, he was wearing soft felt shoes with toes that turned up like those of a Balinese dancer. The slippers, actually leftovers from an old costume, were embroidered with heavy metallic thread, creating a distinctive scurrying sound.
Jennie followed him through the corridor, past darkened bedrooms toward the carved oak door at the end of the hall. He's going to Rosalie's suite.
"Nate, stop. You can't just barge in."
Too late. He was in the room. He turned, motioning her to follow.
"What it is?" She took a step forward, but stopped at the threshold. "There is no light. Just the nightlight in the bathroom." She could see only half of the bed, an outline of feet and legs under a blanket. She's asleep. What's got him in such a tizzy?
Feeling compelled to check, she crept past the bathroom into the sleeping alcove, and leaned over the still figure. She looks … "Nate!" Where is he? She turned again to the bed. She can't be. Holding her breath, Jennie put her fingers on Rosalie Cardamon's wrist. Warm. That's good. She moved her fingers gently, searching for a pulse. No! She grabbed the cord with the call button and pushed.
Jennie averted her eyes from Rosalie's expressionless face. She saw a pillow lying on the floor, and looked again at the inert form on the bed, then back at the pillow, struggling to put the pieces together, unwilling to believe what she feared to be true. Othello was Nate's favorite role, the murder of lovely, innocent Desdemona his favorite scene. Put out the light. Is that what he'd meant by his impassioned plea? Had the line between life and art disappeared for the old man? He loved playing a part, placing a screen of fantasy between himself and the real world, especially when reality became unpleasant. Jennie felt sure that's what he was doing tonight. She was equally sure that other staff members would be willing, even eager to believe the worst of him.
Nate had made enemies in the short time he'd been at Riverview. His arrogance led to arguments and hurt feelings on an almost daily basis. He was quick-witted and had no patience with those who were not, no scruples about getting a laugh at another's expense. But his blows were always to the psyche. Jennie couldn't believe he would do anything physical, certainly nothing as drastic as murder. I have to protect him. But how? I'll–
Woodrow Samson, a newly-minted doctor who frequently spent the night at Riverview, responded to the call. He was twenty-six years old, a handsome black man and Jennie's closest friend among Riverview staff members. "What is it?"
Jennie pointed to Rosalie and whispered, "I think she's dead."
"Can't be." He leaned over the bed and reached for Rosalie's wrist. His back tensed. He dropped to one knee and ran his thumb along the lower portion of her arm. He lay the arm gently on the bed and reached for the stethoscope hanging against his chest. "She is dead." He spoke softly, as if to himself. "It doesn't make sense."
"What do you think happened?" Jennie asked.
He removed a pen-sized flashlight from his jacket pocket and directed its beam over Rosalie's face. With his free hand, he lifted an eyelid. "Petechiae."
"What's that?"
"Tiny hemorrhages in the mucous membrane." He moved around the room and seemed to notice the pillow for the first time. "Was that on the floor when you came in?"
She nodded.
"Someone must have used it to suffocate her."
She argued against this confirmation of her own fears. "It can't be that easy."
"Easier than you'd think. Especially if the victim is already unconscious, maybe had a sleeping pill."
Jennie whispered, "Nate."
He stared at her, at first seeming not to understand, then nodded grimly. "I don't know why I'm surprised."
A faint scurrying in the hall distracted her. She looked toward the door and saw a shadow glide past.
Woody didn't seem to notice. "Rosalie probably did something. Said something. Hurt his pride. Or he was jealous of all the attention she gets.
"That's not it. Othello was his moment of glory."
"What's that have to do with anything?"
"'Put out the light.' He kept saying that. It's a line from the play. You know how he is. Always acting. Maybe the role just took over. Got away from him."
"That's no excuse for–" The doctor looked again at the figure on the bed.
"Woody, he eighty-three years old."
"I know that. But Rosalie's dead. And she's only … I don't know … too young to die." He rotated the small flashlight between thin, dexterous fingers, then jammed it fiercely into his pocket. "A Cardamon! Heads are going to roll."
Jennie wanted to scream. Just shut up! Aloud she said, "Should we–"
"No. We shouldn't. Don't disturb anything. Somebody has to call the police.
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