The Death at Yew Corner Read Free Page A

would eventually be an annex containing additional beds. The wings contained kitchens, offices, service areas, and a laundry. The game room was downstairs alongside the occupational therapy room. She would try there first.
    In twenty minutes she had established that Fabian was not in any of the common rooms, nor was she visiting another patient. A vague sense of alarm quickened her pace as she went back to the nurses’ station on the second floor.
    The R.N. she had spoken to earlier was pushing a medicine cart at the far end of the corridor. Bea slouched against the counter of the station to wait. Of course, it was silly to worry. Bunting was the kind of person who might have gone anywhere … wheelchair or not. She could possibly be back in the kitchens complaining about the food, or in the laundry room.
    Across the hall were double swinging doors. A small black-and-white plaque announced the entrance to the physical therapy room. The nurse was not yet halfway down the hall. Bea walked impatiently toward the double doors and pushed them open.
    Curls of steam rose from a galvanized tub in the far corner of the PT room. A hand with talonlike fingers curled over the edge of the tub’s rim.

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    â€œIt’s the fault of those ungrateful scum! Look at them out there on the grass. They don’t want to work!”
    The voice of the convalescent home’s administrator trembled in outrage. Gustav Tanner was a diminutive man with a ferret face who was now intent on justifying the death to everyone present. Bea didn’t like him. She mumbled a terse acknowledgment and turned toward the two nurses, an aide, and a doctor who hovered over the gurney where Fabian Bunting’s body now rested.
    â€œIt’s the strike,” the administrator continued as he plucked Bea’s sleeve. “They want the world handed to them on a platter. Look what happens. We’re so shorthanded a patient was left unattended in the whirlpool. It’s their fault. Out-and-out negligence that I blame on those outside agitators.”
    The portly doctor with muttonchop whiskers detached himself from the small group around the gurney and walked over to Bea and the administrator. “Cardiac arrest, Mr. Tanner.” They all watched as a sheet was pulled over the face of Fabian Bunting, former doctor of philosophy and iconoclast.
    â€œYou’ll put that on the certificate?”
    â€œOf course.”
    The large male aide who had helped with the removal of the body caught Tanner’s attention. “She was pretty unhappy here, Mr. Tanner. She could have done herself in.”
    Gustav Tanner considered this for a moment. Bea could imagine his mental machinations as he mulled over a fear of lawsuits and the reputation of the home and its staff.
    â€œPatients have done it before.”
    â€œCrawled in a tub?” Bea asked.
    The doctor closed his medical bag. “I’ll complete my paper work in the office.”
    â€œMake sure it’s cardiac arrest,” Tanner yelled after the departing physician.
    Bea felt Tanner’s hand on her elbow as he attempted to steer her from the room. She turned to break his grip and walked over to the tub. The therapy bath rested on the floor on conical-shaped feet. A movable ladder seat could be wheeled to the edge where the occupant could either step into the tub or be lowered into the water. Bea noticed that the steps were in the far corner of the room. She felt the presence of the administrator by her side. “How did she get in, Mr. Tanner?”
    â€œYou may rest assured that I shall find out.”
    â€œAnd take appropriate action?”
    â€œNaturally. And now, Mrs.…”
    â€œWentworth.”
    â€œMy people would like to tidy up the room and make arrangements for Mrs. Bunting.”
    â€œDoctor Bunting.”
    â€œOf course.”
    Bea allowed herself to be led into the hallway. “Don’t you find this odd, Mr.