Page 15 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume
“Nothing,” she says innocently. “Just wondering.”
“Wondering about what?” I frown. “It’s not like you to be so vague. If you want to know something, just spit it out.”
“Just curious.” She shrugs with an air of casual indifference that might have fooled me except for the shrewd intensity I see in her eyes.
“About?”
“If anything interesting has happened of late,” she says with a casual air of nonchalance.
“Like what?” I stare at her blankly, tapping my foot impatiently. It’s freezing out here and I wish she’d get to the point, if she has one.
“Like if Danny has… given you anything nice… or asked… you…anything… at… all?” She drags the befuddled question out as I squint at her in confusion.
“Have you been drinking tequila from the Land of the Dead again?” I sigh.
Last time she visited Tierra de los Muertos with Bruce to see his abuela and the rest of his deceased family, Dusty realised she could not only consume food and drink while there, but she can also get seriously drunk, and I know this because I had to listen to her bemoan her hangover for three days straight.
“No,” Dusty replies in answer to my question. “So… Danny hasn’t asked you anything?”
“What would Danny be asking me?” I reply. I feel Danny stiffen next to me.
Twisting my head up to look at him, I find his eyes wide and slightly panicked.
“What’s going on?” I ask suspiciously. “Why are you two being so weird?”
“Er, nothing,” Danny says abruptly, shifting the two tubs of chocolates while he reaches for me with his free hand. Grasping my elbow, he steers me towards the building. “Come on, we really should get going. Maybe Martin’s awake by now,” he says briskly, but when I open my mouth to say something, he tows me towards the care home, talking over me with random conversation. Glancing back, I notice Dusty has disappeared again.
I wonder what’s going on. More often than not, Dusty is like my permanent shadow unless she’s with Bruce, and usually she tells me where she’s going before she leaves.
There’s not much time to ponder my boyfriend’s sudden desire to discuss the weather, the traffic, or the state of the UK economy, or my deceased best friend’s erratic behaviour and disappearing act as we step from the freezing cold into the main reception of Sunrise Care Home.
A blast of heat hits me in the face and I immediately begin to sweat under my knitted bobble hat and heavy coat.
“Morning, Tris, morning, Danny.” Charlie the receptionist smiles at us warmly and gives a little wave.
“Hey, Charlie.” I return his smile, stopping by the desk with Danny beside me. “Merry Christmas!”
“You too.”
“I’d have thought you’d be off today,” Danny says. “Didn’t you say your cousins were over visiting from Canada?”
“Wow, you’ve got a good memory.”
“It’s because he’s a detective,” I reply. “He’s incurably nosey and has a photographic memory.”
Charlie chuckles. “I’m only in for a few hours helping out. Mrs Bexley passed away last night and Hamish is being transferred to hospital with suspected pneumonia.”
“Oh no,” I reply in concern. I didn’t really know Mrs Bexley, but everyone in the home knows Hamish. He’s a loud, often unintentionally hilarious resident, who’s always wandering around with a spoon and a jar of peanut butter—quite often while not wearing trousers. He’s scandalised a fair few of the visitors on the days he decides to forgo underwear as well. His name also isn’t even Hamish. It’s Rhys Howell and he’s actually Welsh, but he keeps insisting everyone call him Hamish, so we do.
“It’s been a bit of a morning,” Charlie continues. “But there’s been a lot of paperwork and things with transferring Hamish to hospital and the funeral home coming to pick up Mrs Bexley, so I stopped in to help out.”
“That’s so good of you,” Danny says.
“I love my job here.” Charlie shrugs. “And I know we’re not supposed to have favourites but”–he leans in to whisper the rest–“Hamish is one of mine. I wanted to see him before they moved him.”
Just in casewas the unspoken words and I totally get it. Although some of the residents who’ve been unfortunate enough to have early onset dementia are a bit younger, the majority are here to see out the last of their days. It’s another stark reminder that has my stomach churning uncomfortably.
“Well, hopefully these will help cheer you up.” Danny places the two large tubs of chocolates on the desk. “These are for the staff. Merry Christmas.”