The Second Mystery Megapack. Mack Reynolds
But nobody could have slept through the crash of his dropped toolbox or the shouting we’d done at each other. No, Aunt Peck should have been down here in a flash to investigate.
Then I remembered the white sludge in the bottom of her coffee mug. I had taken it for sugar. But it could have been something else—some drug to make her sleep, so Joe could get in here and do…what? Haunt the place?
“Well, at least someone’s tired,” I said with a chuckle. I had to put him at ease and get away long enough to check on Aunt Peck. “I’m going to have to take my pain pills to get to sleep tonight.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You should do that.”
I nodded and smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to turn in. Good night, Mr. Carver.”
“Good night.” He picked up his toolbox, then pushed past me into the dining room.
I limped with deliberate noisiness down the hallway—a shuffling step, then a tap of my walking stick, then another shuffling step, the another tap, floorboards creaking underfoot all the time. Halfway to my room, I heard a slight noise behind me, and I could feel his eyes following my every move. Hopefully he found my performance convincing.
Without a backward glance, I entered my room and shut the door. Then, so slowly it hurt, I counted to a hundred. When I peeked out, he had gone back to doing whatever mischief he had come to do.
I pulled out my cell phone and flipped it open. Number 002 on the speed dial list still said, “Fast help.” But what did that mean—police? FBI? Mob hit-men? I needed muscle, and I needed it fast. Despite his affection for Aunt Peck, I didn’t exactly feel safe with Joe in the house.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed button 2. On the first ring, a man picked up and said in a gravely voice, “Smith’s office.”
“This is Peter Geller. I need someone here. Fast.”
“Five minutes,” he said and hung up.
Five minutes. I could last that long.
Slowly I eased myself out into the hallway, closed the door silently behind me, and crept up hallway toward the narrow stairs. I placed my feet as close to the wall as I could, hoping the floorboards wouldn’t squeak. Tiptoeing along that way, without using my walking stick really hurt; I put too much weight on the balls of my feet, and the shooting pains it caused brought tears to my eyes.
But it worked. The floorboards remained silent.
When I passed the door to the dining room, Joe had his back to me. He had rolled up half the rug and was examining the floorboards. Looking for termite damage? Somehow, I doubted it.
I reached the staircase. Cautiously, I placed my foot on the first step. The stairs had barely squeaked when Aunt Peck went up them at bedtime. I estimated my own weight at seventy to eighty pounds less than hers, so I anticipated little trouble. Grasping the railing, I hauled myself up an inch at a time. Three steps, and not a sound; six steps, halfway there; eight steps, and I knew I’d make it.
I paused at the top landing. The door to Aunt Peck’s room stood open. Dim light spilled in from the hallway, and I could just make out her queen-sized bed and several bulky pieces of furniture. I flipped on the overhead lights and went in.
She lay on top of her quilt, still wearing that red-and-white checked dress; she hadn’t had a chance to put on her nightgown—she had just collapsed, unconscious or dead.
“Aunt Peck?” I called softly.
From below, ancient nails groaned as they pulled free from a board. By the sounds, Joe hadn’t been lying: he really was pulling up the floor.
“Aunt Peck?” I called again, louder.
When she still didn’t respond, I limped over and shook her shoulder. Nothing. Her forehead glistened faintly with perspiration; when I touched her carotid artery, she had a fast, fluttery heartbeat. Drugged?
No more than two or three minutes had passed since I’d called Smith’s office for help. How fast would Hellerville’s EMS respond to a 911 call? Who would get here first?
Taking a deep breath, I dialed 911. I couldn’t risk an old woman’s life.
“Emergency services,” said a tinny voice.
“I need an ambulance,” I said.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“I have an old woman here who’s unconscious. Possible drug overdose. I don’t know what she took.”
“What is your location?”
I gave the address. “How long will it take to get someone here?”
“I have already alerted the police, sir. They should arrive shortly. Can you remain on the line?”
Behind me, I heard a voice say, “What are you doing?”
A chill swept through me. I whirled—and found Joe Carver silhouetted in the doorway. With two quick strides, he reached me and ripped the cell phone from my hand.
“Aunt Peck—” I began.
“You leave her be!” He raised his fist to strike me, face drawing back in rage.
Then the doorbell rang. A second later someone began to pound on the door. The cavalry had arrived. Far off, I heard the wail of an ambulance’s siren.
Joe hesitated, then lowered his fist. He looked over his shoulder, clearly uneasy.
“The police are here,” I said in a soothing voice. “You better run down and let them in. I think Aunt Peck had a stroke.”
“A—a stroke?” He gaped at me.
“Please—let them in!” I let a note of urgency creep into my voice. “We have to get her to a hospital!”
The cell phone in his hand began to ring. I reached out and plucked it from his fingers.
“Go!” I said, pointing at the stairs. “Let them in!”
He turned and thundered down the steps. I heard him babbling to the police about how poor old Bessie must have had a stroke, how they needed to get her to a hospital.
Then I answered the cell phone: “Peter Geller.”
“You’ve got cops there,” said the man with the gravelly voice. “We drove past. What do you want me to do?”
“Circle around. Come in quietly as soon as they’re gone.”
“Anything else?”
“Call Smith and tell him to get out here fast. It’s important.”
“Got it.” He hung up.
I stuck the phone in my pocket as two uniformed police officers came bounding up the stairs carrying medical cases. Both cops looked young—maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, with close-shaved heads and plenty of muscles bulging beneath their uniforms. One started taking Aunt Peck’s blood pressure while the other did a circuit of the room, scooping vials of pills from her dresser into a plastic bag.
“You phoned it in?” the cop asked me. Pulling out a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff, he started to take Aunt Peck’s blood pressure. “Do you know what’s wrong with her?”
Over his shoulder, I read Aunt Peck’s blood pressure: 160 over 90. Much too high.
“Yes, I know what’s wrong.” My gaze flickered over to Joe Carver, standing in the doorway wringing his hands. “It’s a drug overdose.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I noticed a white residue in her coffee mug. I think there were pills in it.”
“A—a stroke!” Joe said. His face had gone bone white. “You said it was a stroke!”
“No, it wasn’t