“It is a mess.”

  “Give me some time, and I promise it won’t be long. I really want to see you, Simon.”

  “You’re seeing me now.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Chapter 28

  The cough persisted and did not respond to the usual medications. It became more worrisome when Eleanor began spitting mucus. Her fevers and headaches came and went, but always returned with sweating, followed by chills. She complained of a heavy chest and difficulty breathing. Her appetite was gone and she refused everything but the ginger cookies and green tea. She was fatigued but couldn’t sleep because of all the coughing. Two days after Christmas, Dr. Lilly informed Simon that she had pneumonia, but it was under control. A few rounds of strong antibiotics should do the trick.

  The pneumonia kept her in bed and prevented physical therapy. She had been in the hospital for a week with little improvement. The antibiotics did nothing to help and her breathing became even more labored. When a monitor erupted she was put on a ventilator. On the morning of December 28, Simon and Tillie went to the hospital to check on Eleanor. While Tillie sat by her bed, Simon met with Dr. Lilly, Dr. Wilkes, and two other physicians, and listened as they discussed options. They would immediately begin draining her lungs. She was conscious, most of the time.

  Simon was practically living at the hospital, where he camped out in a waiting room. A couple of her girlfriends from the “poker club” showed up, but they were not allowed into her room.

  After ten hours on the ventilator, her lungs were filling up faster than they could be drained. Simon whispered in her ear and, for the first time, there was no response. He huddled with Dr. Lilly who said, “She cannot breathe on her own. I’m afraid she’s choking. There is virtually no brain activity.”

  Simon was well aware that what he said and did in the next few hours would probably be reviewed by lawyers, so he said as little as possible.

  Then Dr. Lilly said, “Let’s wait a few more hours.”

  Simon mumbled a soft “Okay.” He left the hospital, drove to his office, and tried to nap.

  Tillie woke him up and said he was needed at the hospital. He asked her to go with him. He might need a witness, though that was not mentioned. As always, he carried his briefcase. In it was the file with the advance directive and power of attorney signed by Eleanor.

  Her condition was even more hopeless. Even with the ventilator at full throttle, her frail and aged body could barely breathe. Her brain had already ceased showing any activity, and her lungs and heart were working only with the aid of a machine.

  Dr. Wilkes said, “Simon, it looks like the decision is yours.”

  He had been anticipating this moment and was already shaking his head. “No, I’m not doing that, not going there. It’s a medical decision.”

  Dr. Wilkes said, “The advance directive is quite clear. No resuscitation, no ventilators, no feeding tubes, no device to prolong a heartbeat.”

  “I know, I wrote it. But I’m not making the decision. I’m not a blood relative and I do not feel comfortable being in this room.”

  Dr. Lilly tossed the advance directive on the table and said, “Okay, let’s meet here at eight in the morning.” He walked out of the room, followed by two other doctors and Loretta Goodwin.

  * * *

  The same group reconvened at eight the following morning. Dr. Lilly said, “The patient’s condition has not improved, in fact it’s only worsened. She can’t breathe by herself and the monitors show no brain activity. It is my advice to turn off the ventilator.”

  Dr. Wilkes said, “Mr. Latch?”

  “I’ll follow the advice of my client’s medical team. Do you all agree?”

  Everyone nodded in agreement. Simon retired to the cafeteria and tried to drink some coffee. Ninety minutes passed before Loretta Goodwin walked in and whispered, “It’s over.”

  Eleanor Barnett was pronounced dead at 10:02 A.M., December 30, 2015, at the Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital.

  Simon went to the main office to plow through the paperwork with Dr. Wilkes and her staff. She said, “I’m sure you’ve made final arrangements.”

  “I have, with Cupit & Moke. When will the body be released?”

  “The death certificate is being prepared. A medical examiner will be here in an hour to sign it. We should be finished by one P.M.”

  * * *

  An informant entered the picture with a tip that arrived not long after the pronouncement of death; 10:26 to be exact, according to the phone records that would be analyzed for months. The person who made the call was thought to be a male, though that was never certain. The anonymous voice was obviously disguised. The call bounced off a tower on top of the hospital. A cheap burner phone, probably tossed in the pond after the call. It was recorded and listened to a thousand times:

  “Eleanor Barnett just passed away at Blue Ridge Memorial. The doctors say it’s pneumonia. But her death is suspicious. It should be investigated.”

  The 911 dispatcher called the Braxton Police Department and sent the recording to a Detective Roger Barr. At the moment, Barr was the only detective on duty. If the BPD had a homicide unit, it was Barr. The last murder had been seventeen months earlier and witnessed by four people, so the investigation had been easy. Barr listened to the recording, then listened again with his chief, who shrugged and said, “Give it a go.”

  Detective Barr called the hospital, talked to Dr. Wilkes, got enough details, and drove to the funeral home of Cupit & Moke. He was loitering in the front parlor when Eleanor was rolled through the back door and taken to the cooling unit. An elderly secretary brought forth Mr. Douglas Gregg, the owner and mortician, in his daily black suit. He smiled and asked, “How may I help you?”

  Barr, in his customary battered navy jacket, wrinkled khakis, and worn cowboy boots, said, “Sure, thanks, so what are your plans right now with Ms. Barnett?”

  “She is to be cremated and buried next to her husband at Eternal Springs Cemetery.”

  “Okay, and who’s in charge of her arrangements?”

  “Mr. Simon Latch, her attorney.”

  “Heard of him, but don’t know him. Look, hold off on the cremation until I find Mr. Latch, okay?”

  “Certainly, Officer. We never rush these things. Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  * * *

  Simon was at his desk examining an egg salad sandwich that had been in the fridge for at least two weeks. Store-bought. Surely there were enough chemicals in it to ward off spoilage, but there was a strange, tangy smell to it. There was nothing else in the fridge, at least on his side. On Tillie’s side there was an impressive row of veggie drinks and fruit flushes, all of which were working superbly.

  How could he be thinking of her figure at a time like this?

  Eleanor Barnett had just died. She had been a huge part of his life for the past nine months and would, most likely, dominate his future. He had warm feelings for her and a great deal of sympathy, a lovely woman who spent her last years with no family and few friends. He was also relieved to be free of the worries and responsibility of her care, though tidying up her affairs might take years. He wouldn’t miss the lunches, though some were enjoyable.

  He fought off his emotions by telling himself that Netty lived a long, happy life and died with little suffering. He doubted he would see his eighty-fifth year.

  Tillie interrupted his solitude by tapping on the door as she entered with the look that only meant trouble. She handed him the business card of Detective Roger Barr, Braxton Police.

  “What does he want?”

  “Wouldn’t say. I’m going to lunch.”

  Barr settled into his chair in such a way as to reveal a black Glock on his hip. What an amateur. Simon had never met him, but then he tried to avoid criminal work.

  Barr’s thick mustache covered his top lip. From under it the gruff words came out: “Just left the funeral home. What’s the hurry with cremating Ms. Barnett?”

  “She died two hours ago. How did you get involved so soon?”

  “That’s my business, Mr. Latch. Are you in a hurry or something?”

  “Not at all. When she was pronounced dead, I called the funeral home. That’s what usually happens. Either the family or the hospital will make the call.”

  “Are you family?”

  “I am not. There is no family to speak of.” Everything about Barr was irritating. His sudden involvement, his cocky smirk, as if he knew something fishy was in the works. Simon decided to push back. “What’s your involvement with Ms. Barnett?”

  “Right now, nothing but a lot of curiosity. The death certificate says she died of pneumonia, that right?”

  “What’s your question?”

  “Did she die of pneumonia?”

  “Look, I’m not a doctor and I didn’t sign her death certificate. If it says pneumonia, then it’s pneumonia. Why don’t you ask her doctor?”

  “Oh, I will. I have a lot of questions. But for now, let’s hold off on the cremation, okay?”

  “By what authority are you making this request?”

  “I’ll get a court order. What’s the big hurry?”

  “There is no hurry. I’ve never been in this position before. The hospital released the body to the funeral home, and Ms. Barnett’s advance directive calls for a cremation, then a burial. I’m just following my client’s wishes.”

  “Got that. I’ll get a court order anyway.”

  Simon was exasperated and trying to think two steps ahead. A court order might mean more publicity, and for some reason that was not what he wanted. He said, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll call the funeral home and tell them to wait.”

  “I’ve already done that.”

  Chapter 29

  The year would not end on a quiet note. On Thursday, December 31, Circuit Court Judge Mary Blankenship Pointer was having her morning coffee with her husband at their little breakfast nook, both still in pajamas. They were discussing a small New Year’s Eve dinner party they had been invited to but would rather avoid, when their landline rang.

  The voice on the other end identified himself as Teddy Hammer, attorney, of the firm of such and such in Washington, D.C. He had an emergency matter that needed to be heard that morning, if at all possible. Judge Pointer explained that she normally kept her office open until noon on New Year’s Eve, though there was never much activity. Mr. Hammer explained the nature of his emergency and said he was emailing a copy of his petition for a temporary injunction at that very moment. It was brief, only two pages, and he could be in her courtroom by 10 A.M.

  As she waited for the petition to arrive via internet, she checked out Mr. Hammer, a lawyer she had never heard of, but then there were at least a million of them in D.C. The big city was far away from Braxton in so many ways. His firm had ten lawyers with an office on Connecticut Avenue and another one in Arlington. It was a typical lawyer’s website, with lots of bluster and self-congratulations.

  Mr. Hammer represented Jerry and Clyde Korsak, two stepsons of Ms. Eleanor Barnett, who had passed away the day before. His clients were concerned about the “mysterious circumstances” surrounding her death and wanted to get to the bottom of things. They requested that all funeral and burial arrangements be stopped, or “held in abeyance” in lawyer talk, until an autopsy could be performed. At the bottom of the second page, Mr. Hammer stated that a copy of the petition was being emailed simultaneously to the Honorable Simon F. Latch, attorney for Eleanor Barnett.

  Attorney Latch was at his desk studying Vegas lines for bowl games, with his coffee, when the email came across. In one dreadful split second he forgot about football and yelled an expletive. His office door was open but the place was empty. Tillie, of course, had the entire day off. There were no appointments. Simon was still in his boxers.

  In the middle of his desk was a small bowl filled with low-fat Greek yogurt, blueberries, and granola, and he had been preparing to dive in. Now, he stared at the food with no desire whatsoever. His stomach churned. He fought off a wave of nausea.

  Was this the beginning of the end? Was his grand scheme and scam finally unraveling? What could possibly be mysterious about Netty’s death? He had watched her deteriorate as pneumonia set in. The coughing, fevers, labored breathing—all the symptoms were there and he had discussed her condition with the nurses and the doctors. An eighty-five-year-old woman got banged up in a car wreck, couldn’t walk, didn’t eat much, took plenty of meds, and slowly withered away. Where was the mystery?

  Now the vultures were swarming.

  Once he had collected his thoughts, somewhat, and the room had stopped spinning, he thought about calling Mr. Teddy Hammer and cursing him. But the more diplomatic and beneficial approach might be to call with a professional hello and dig for information. Either call was a bad idea.

  He searched Hammer’s firm, absorbed the first image of the man, and loathed everything about him. Age about fifty, expensive dark suit, chubby cheeks, puffy eyes, the cocky smirk of a street lawyer who knew how to hurt you. His firm wasn’t much; the usual collection of hustlers trying to portray an image of a blue-ribbon D.C. firm with plenty of connections.

  There were so many baffling scenarios, but the one that was most disturbing was the fact that Jerry and Clyde had joined forces. When Simon had quizzed Eleanor about them, she had always given the impression that the stepsons lived in separate worlds and didn’t like each other. Now the two outlaws had teamed up with an aggressive lawyer to wreak havoc with Eleanor’s death.

  * * *

  When Simon walked into the courtroom at exactly ten-thirty, Judge Pointer was already on the bench and chatting with a clerk. A court reporter filed her nails as she waited, obviously irritated at being called in on a holiday. Simon introduced himself to Teddy Hammer, who was alone. The only spectator in the room was Detective Roger Barr, who sat in the front row and flipped through a magazine.

  They were in Courtroom B, a much smaller room and one used for non-jury trials. Judge Pointer preferred it over the larger, grander courtroom because it was more intimate, plus the HVAC system was more reliable. She had been given her judgeship fourteen years earlier by the General Assembly, no messy campaigns to worry about, and she was well regarded by the bar. After a round of all the obligatory pleasantries, she called things to order and the court reporter began recording the proceedings.

  Judge Pointer said, “This is an expedited matter that would normally require notice to all parties and some preparation, but, as I understand things, Ms. Barnett died yesterday and there is some concern over what happens next with her remains. Mr. Latch, you are her attorney? Please keep your seat.”

  “I suppose I am, Your Honor. I prepared her last will and testament and I have a power of attorney over her affairs, but I have not been appointed by the court to handle her estate. I’m sort of in limbo here.”

  “Okay, let’s proceed.”

  Simon jumped in with “And Your Honor, just to be on the safe side, I suggest that this hearing be closed and the record secured, for now anyway.”

  Hammer said, “We have no problem with that.”

  Judge Pointer said, “Well, the only spectator I can see right now is Detective Barr with the Braxton Police. Mr. Barr, do you mind stepping outside? We’ll call you if we need you.”

  Barr was irritated and glared at Simon as he left the courtroom.

  Judge Pointer said, “Mr. Hammer, it’s your petition. You have the floor.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. It’s really quite simple. I represent the two stepsons of Ms. Eleanor Barnett. She passed yesterday. It appears as though Mr. Latch is eager to have her remains cremated. Indeed, at this moment she’s being held in the cooling unit in the basement of Cupit & Moke Funeral Home, just down the street. We are in no position to make accusations or arouse suspicion, but my clients would like to know the exact cause of death before she is buried. Thus, they request a time-out and an autopsy.”

  Simon had made the decision years earlier to avoid courtrooms if at all possible. He loathed trial work and had never felt comfortable on his feet. The courtrooms he frequented did not have jury boxes or counsel tables. Most matters were not contested. It was obvious to him that Teddy Hammer was a smooth brawler who had addressed many judges and juries.

  Simon replied, “Ms. Barnett was in the hospital for two weeks before she died. She was treated by the best doctors in town. I was there every day. I watched her slowly succumb to pneumonia. Her doctors tried everything, including a ventilator for the final two days. They have no doubt she died of pneumonia. There is no need for an autopsy.”

  Judge Pointer asked, “And you prepared her last will and testament?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And in that will did she give instructions as to her final arrangements?”

  “No, ma’am. Those instructions were given in a subsequent document, her advance directive.”

  “And when did she sign that?”

  “Twelve days ago.”

  “In the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it was prepared by you?”

  “Yes.”

  The judge seemed suspicious. Indeed, an air of suspicion seemed to settle in the courtroom. Hammer read it perfectly and said, “Your Honor, my clients believe that their father and stepmother owned a burial policy issued by Cupit & Moke, and it provides for funeral services and a burial next to their father at the Eternal Springs Cemetery. It covers embalming, preparation, a nice casket, a memorial service, and burial. The works. There’s nothing in that policy about cremation.”