Best Place to Die Read online

  Table of Contents

  Recent Titles by Charles Atkins

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prolog

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Recent Titles by Charles Atkins

  THE CADAVER’S BALL

  THE PORTRAIT

  RISK FACTOR

  ASHES, ASHES *

  MOTHER’S MILK *

  The Lilian and Ada Mystery Series

  VULTURES AT TWILIGHT *

  BEST PLACE TO DIE *

  * available from Severn House

  BEST PLACE TO DIE

  Charles Atkins

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2012 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2012 by Charles Atkins.

  The right of Charles Atkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Atkins, Charles.

  Best place to die.

  1. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  813.6-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-318-1 (epub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8208-0 (cased)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  To Peggy Munro

  PROLOG

  On Saturday, April 2nd 2011, the last day of his life, Dr Norman Trask, a mostly retired Connecticut surgeon, felt true contentment. The reed-thin and straight-backed octogenarian, with freshly barbered silver hair and clear blue eyes after a double cataract procedure stared at the flat screen monitor and thought, Norm, life is good. He smiled at the small webcam eye at the top of the screen and then at his son, Dennis, on the screen. How he loved that kid – not a kid at all now. As they did their Saturday Skype check-in Norm took stock of his youngest, his red hair mostly gray, a shiny spot on top, hell of a gut from booze he’d supposedly sworn off thirty years ago – but settled, thank God. And how did he get so old? But thank God. The kid had been a nightmare . . . and thank God.

  ‘You sure you don’t want us to come over, and cart away some of that stuff? I mean, Dad . . .’

  ‘Don’t spoil it. The place is a little messy; it’s not a problem,’ Norm said, loving Dennis, but not wanting to put either of them, or Dennis’s second wife, Britney, through the tired routine of them seeing his collections, insinuating he was a hoarder, and everyone getting upset. The problem was not that he was a hoarder, but that this two-bedroom top-of-the-line 1200 square foot unit in the Nillewaug Village Assisted Living Community was too damn small, even with his double-sized cage in the basement. He’d considered renting a storage unit, maybe two – something he would never tell Dennis.

  ‘Messy?’ Dennis shook his head. ‘Dad, you can’t see the floor for all of your clock magazines. Messy is not the word, and yes I realize your clocks are valuable and you’ve got a great collection, but how many do you really need? I worry that one of those stacks or those bookcases are going to fall over and you’re going to get hurt or . . .’

  ‘Dennis.’ Norm felt a twinge of anger. ‘Stop it! I’ve cleaned out a lot of stuff. I will not have other people going through my things and throwing out important articles, or moving things around like Britney did the last time so I can’t find what I need. She’s a pretty girl, but she is not to do that again. As you can see –’ indicating the area he’d carefully staged so that what Dennis saw through the screen was his father dressed in pressed jeans and a red-plaid shirt backed by a tidy wall of bookshelves in his favorite leather swivel chair, with the arms worn bare and the axel squeaking comfortably – ‘things are just fine here.’ However, if the camera had a wider focus the scene would have been quite different. In order to carve out this area Norm had to shift boxes of clock parts, and several cubic meters of magazines and journals with titles like Clocks, Clock Enthusiast, Clock Connoisseur, The Connecticut Horological Society Newsletter, Clock Repair Quarterly, The American Journal of Orthopedics, Journal of the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons. All his life people had been on Norm about his stuff, and it was none of anyone’s damn business. It drove him crazy. All anyone seems to want to do is throw away my stuff, perfectly good stuff. Dennis, in particular, after all he’d done for that kid. Just lay off!

  ‘Dad . . .’ Dennis wasn’t letting up. ‘I don’t mean to get on your case, but you were at the flea market this morning, weren’t you?’

  ‘So what? I go every week.’ And if Dennis had been in a more understanding frame of mind, Norman would have shared how this morning had been a corker. He’d scored a huge find at the Brantsville flea market, which now sat just out of range of the webcam – an early nineteenth-century wood-movement pillar-and-scroll mantle clock that he was sure was either Eli or Samuel Terry. His heart raced at the memory of spotting it in the early dawn light, the reverse painted glass panel with its gold eagle clutching a quiver of arrows in perfect condition, not a scratch, not a chip, just covered in a thick layer of grime. His hands, still surgeon steady, had shaken as he’d peeled off crisp hundred-dollar bills. He glanced lovingly at this gem, now fully dismantled on his much-stained work table. The clock’s finish crackled like alligator skin and was, to an untrained eye, burnt in appearance, each of the wood gears cut by hand and worn – literally – by years of ticking time. And the same dealer, a regular who cleaned out basements, attics and barns also had three boxes of clock parts at the can’t-resist price of twenty bucks a pop. Just one of those sets of Welch Allyn hands or nineteenth-century German tall-clock weights alone was worth what he’d paid for the three boxes; it would have been foolish to pass them up. ‘So what’s new with you?’ Norman asked, shifting the topic and breathing the heady aroma of his special mix of turpentine and high-grade machinist’s oil that would bring this morning’s beauty back to life. Not for the first time, he mused how his passion for finding and repairing rare clocks wasn’t too different from his decades of replacing and fixing hips, shoulders an
d knees. Many of his precision German drills, chisels and bits, now flecked with wood shavings and oil, had started in the operating suites of Hartford General, where Norm had been attending and then Chair of the Department of Orthopedics for forty years.

  Dennis shook his head and then dutifully gave his dad an overview of the last week of life on Westwood Lane. Starting with his triumphs at his sprawling and hugely successful car dealership on Bedford Turnpike.

  As Dennis reported the details of his week and the comings and goings of his two adult sons, Norm thought back to the day he’d purchased the small used-car lot for Dennis after he’d finished his year at Osborn Correctional. Sure, it had just been a Driving Under the Influence (DUI), but it had been Dennis’s third, a mandatory sentence, and a felony in the state of Connecticut. Norm hated to dwell on that year of hell, and the realization that as a felon his brilliant and athletically gifted son’s options for a future had been radically reduced. Dennis’s tears in the holding cell, the fear that in his panic the nineteen year old might harm himself. And the gut-wrenching reality that nothing Norm could do, despite his influence and the best legal defense money could buy, could bail his youngest out. But now, looking through this cyber window of Dennis’s stable life in a million-dollar home on three manicured acres . . . What a handful he’d been and thank God. So sad that his beloved Kate never got to see the full turn around; she’d died of a massive coronary a month before Dennis’s release. He’d been their baby, a later-life and totally unexpected pregnancy. And Kate, always fragile with her porcelain skin and bouts of depression and paralysing anxiety that would leave her bed wrecked and too frightened to leave the house, was no match for their red-headed hellion. His year at Osborn just a stopping point for a teen who’d put them through hell. Thank God, their tag phrase for all his near misses. The awful middle-of-the-night calls from the local cops. Parents demanding Norm do something about his son after he and his two hooligan friends had bullied some kid on the playground. Parent-teacher conferences, threats of expulsion after he’d brought the air rifle to school, getting suspended from the varsity football team after an ounce of pot was found in his locker, accusations of drug dealing, the slutty girl who’d accused him of rape; it had been relentless. They even had to see a shrink. Dr Greene – what a quack – Norm had hated those sessions. ‘He’s begging for your attention,’ the shrink once said. ‘He desperately wants you to notice him, and if he can’t get it through all the positive things he does at school and on the field, he’ll do whatever it takes.’ It was a lot of mush-mouthed bullshit. The kid was too smart, too good looking, star athlete, no sense of consequence and an ability to talk his way out of just about anything. But look at him now, thank God. And horrible as it was, maybe Osborn was necessary. When Dennis had gotten out, he swore to never drink again and to pull his life together. At least he got one out of two.

  ‘So, we’ll see you Tuesday,’ Dennis said, the tone of his voice indicating their weekly Skype was near its end.

  Norm nodded. ‘Yup, old man dinner night,’ he said, referring to the Tuesday night special at San Rosa’s Restaurant, a town favorite with your choice of entrée, soup or salad, roll, pasta and beverage, all for $11.95. They rarely missed a week, not that they couldn’t afford better, but Norm could never pass up a bargain. Even the cocktails were discounted, though he was careful to always stop after two Manhattans lest the proximity of booze have a negative effect on Dennis, who he was pleased to see only ordered cola. ‘Love you, son,’ Norm said, knowing it was true and wondering if he’d said it more often when Dennis had been young it might have made a difference. As the screen went blank, Norm felt the dull edges of familiar guilt. Truth was, he’d been the big surgeon with a hugely successful practice, on-call for the hospital every fourth or fifth night, twelve-hour stretches in the surgical suites, and dog-dead tired when he’d finally make it home. Then wolf down dinner while throwing back a stiff Manhattan or just straight bourbon, maybe a few – never more – and then grab a journal and read it in bed until he’d passed out. He’d had little time for his youngest, not like his older sons. With them he’d been the father at Little League, had helped them carve their pinewood derby racers as Cub Scouts, and cheered them on when they’d placed their red and blue racers on the rickety track. But in the twelve years that separated Bob, his oldest – now a surgeon like dad – from Dennis, Norm’s career had kicked into high gear. Kate had never complained. He glanced at a framed studio still, high on the wall, taken at their wedding and now thick with dust, and one corner seemingly affixed to the ceiling by layers of a spider’s web. As his eyes connected with hers guilt stirred, like poking embers. The truth was not kind. Yes, he’d loved Kate and yes his career had consumed his days and many of his nights, but that wasn’t the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help him God. Pushing up from his chair, he eased his conscience. ‘Done is done, old man.’ And another truism picked up from one of the few Al-Anon meetings he and Kate had reluctantly attended at the recommendation of one of Dennis’s many drug and alcohol counselors: ‘It is what it is.’

  Always conscious of potential hazards related to clock repair – the solvents, turps and various oil-based finishes had to be handled and disposed of respectfully – he grabbed his daily rags. It reminded him of counting sharps and sponges before closing a patient. And he was careful not to upset any of the piles of journals, boxes and bags that formed a channel from the tidily staged Skype area to the congested galley kitchen, with counters obscured by stacks of cleaned dishes, overflowing baskets of vitamins and nutritional supplements, mugs with brushes soaking in cleaning solvent, and mounds of unopened mail that spilled from counter to floor. Along one counter was a pyramid of three-pound-size Chock Full o’Nuts coffee cans, their tops tightly sealed. He opened one that was filled with water and oily rags from a previous day and wedged today’s deep into the liquid. The skim of blue-black solvent coolly tickled his fingers and left a ring around his wrist. Once a month they’d offer hazardous waste removal, admittedly he’d not taken advantage of one for the past several months . . . maybe a year – longer than that? Possibly – but this month for sure; he’d make a note of it.

  Then, from next to the double sink – one side not used for over three years on account of needing it for overflow dishes, he selected a medicine bottle, held it up in the filtered light from his second-floor window and checked the label – Sildenafil 10mg. He popped one of the blue blunt-edged diamonds of Viagra into his mouth and swallowed dry. His gaze flicking over the prescriber’s name at the bottom – Dr Norman Trask. Cautiously, he opened his fridge just wide enough to reach in, grab a carton of OJ and take a few swigs, but not so wide that the crammed contents would come tumbling out.

  His ears perked as a dozen clocks came to life, soft mechanical whirrs presaging the first strike of hammer to brass, bronze and iron bells. An English bracket clock from the second bedroom provided the melody of Westminster as American brass- and wooden-movement clocks, mostly from Connecticut, provided their resonant harmonies. As the last finished striking the hour, his front door buzzed. He grinned in anticipation and felt a giddy rush of relief – with Kate gone this wasn’t cheating any more. ‘Life really is good,’ he said and, passing back through the kitchen and into the long entryway that was lined on both sides with wall clocks that he and Dennis had hung up when he’d first moved to Nillewaug Village, he opened the door.

  ONE

  Rose Rimmelman’s water-blue eyes shot open, her heart raced as she struggled to quell the panic triggered by her dream. Where are you? Having to once again remind herself this was no longer the Lower East Side of Manhattan and her familiar-as-the-back-of-her-hand 14th floor rent-stabilized apartment on Rivington. It’s the other place with its silly fake Indian name. Her nightmare hovered in the dark, bodies falling, waves of dust burying buildings as the towers burned and one by one did the unthinkable – collapsed, and as they did a horrible rain of ash and acid fell to the ground. Her ninety-two – possib
ly ninety-one, could be ninety-three – year-old body felt heavy and frozen beneath cotton sheets and a down comforter stuffed with even older feathers that her mother had taken in treasured pillows and a now-gutted comforter from her shtetl in the Ukraine. The dream lingered, something too real – it wasn’t raining on 9/11. Droplets spattered her face, like being caught in the spray of a lawn sprinkler and then her nose caught the smell; something’s burning. Her heart fluttered, and with it came the pit-of-her-stomach lurch that meant she’d gone back into atrial fibrillation. With each breath her worst fears confirmed; something’s on fire! Just move.

  She eased her thick legs over the side of the bed and tapped the lamp with its clever touch sensor – just one of the many perks her daughter Ada had bribed her with in exchange for Rose finally agreeing to this awful move to Connecticut. Anger surged, mingling with panic as her apartment came into fuzzy view, then on with her thick glasses and the fuzz became a thin and slightly acrid mist. ‘Fire.’ Feeling for her slippers she gripped the edge of her bed and the adjacent nightstand. A glance at the bright orange numerals on the alarm – 4.12 a.m. Just get out, she thought, anger now rolling over her fear as she looked at all her possessions getting ruined by the overhead sprinklers, the family photos neatly hung by Ada, her great-grandson, Aaron, and their Waspy friend, Lil. All of their light-hearted banter, telling her how much happier she’d be here; their non-stop sales pitch about the dining hall with its world-class chef, laundry service, bus trips to Broadway and the casinos. She hurried to the door, grabbing a pink fleece robe. Serve them right if I die in this hell hole! And her faithful navy pocketbook with the once brass-colored clasp worn down to the base metal. Why couldn’t they just leave me where I was? Or if she really was that concerned she could have stayed with me. But no! Ada always has to have things her way. She felt the knob, remembering fire drills past: if it’s warm don’t open it. Cool to the touch, she twisted. Even without her annoying and too-expensive hearing aids, and no thought of returning for them, she sensed pandemonium in the hall. ‘Why isn’t an alarm going?’ she shouted. ‘What’s wrong with this place?’ All Ada’s fault. Why did I ever agree to this move?