And Thereby Hangs a Tale

Evelyn disappeared, and once again she changed her name. Three months later, Lynn Beattie turned up in Florida, where she registered for a diploma course at the Miami College of Nursing.

You may well ask why Lynn selected the Sunshine State for her new enterprise. I think it can be explained by some statistics she came across while carrying out her research. An article she read in Playboy magazine revealed that Florida was the state with the greatest number of millionaires per capita, and that the majority of them had retired and had a life expectancy of less than ten years. However, she quickly realized that she would need to carry out much more research if she hoped to graduate top of that particular class, as she was likely to come up against some pretty formidable rivals who had the same thing in mind as she did.

In the course of a long weekend spent with a middle-aged married doctor, Lynn discovered, without once having to refer to a textbook, not only that Jackson Memorial Hospital was the most expensive rest home in the state, but also that it didn’t offer special rates for deserving cases.

Once Lynn had graduated with a nursing diploma, and a grade, which came as a surprise to her fellow students but not to her professor, she applied for a job at Jackson Memorial.

She was interviewed by a panel of three, two of whom, including the Medical Director, were not convinced that Ms. Beattie came from the right sort of background to be a Jackson nurse. The third bumped into her in the car park on his way home, and the following morning he was able to convince his colleagues to change their minds.

Lynn Beattie began work as a probationary nurse on the first day of the following month. She did not rush the next part of her plan, aware that if the Medical Director found out what she was up to, he would dismiss her without a second thought.

From the first day, Lynn went quietly and conscientiously about her work, melting into the background while keeping her eyes wide open. She quickly discovered that a hospital, just like any other workplace, has its gossipmongers, who enjoy nothing more than to pass on the latest snippet of information to anyone willing to listen. Lynn was willing to listen. After a few weeks Lynn had discovered the one thing she needed to know about the doctors, and, later, a great deal more about their patients.

There were twenty-three doctors who ministered to the needs of seventy-one residents. Lynn had no interest in how many nurses there were, because she had no plans for them, provided she didn’t come across a rival.

The gossipmonger told her that three of the doctors assumed that every nurse wanted to sleep with them, which made it far easier for Lynn to continue her research. After another few weeks, which included several “stopovers,” she found out, without ever being able to make a note, that sixty-eight of the residents were married, senile, or, worse, received regular visits from their devoted relatives. Lynn had to accept the fact that 90 percent of women either outlive their husbands or end up divorcing them. It’s all part of the American dream. However, Lynn still managed to come up with a shortlist of three candidates who suffered from none of these deficiencies: Frank Cunningham Jr., Larry Schumacher III, and Arthur J. Sommerfield.

Frank Cunningham was eliminated when Lynn discovered that he had two mistresses, one of whom was pregnant and had recently serve

d a paternity suit on him, demanding that a DNA test be carried out.

Larry Schumacher III also had to be crossed off the list when Lynn found out he was visited every day by his close friend Gregory, who didn’t look a day over fifty. Come to think of it, not many people in Florida do.

However, the third candidate ticked all her boxes.

Arthur J. Sommerfield was a retired banker whose worth according to Forbes magazine—a publication which had replaced Playboy as Lynn’s postgraduate reading—was estimated at round a hundred million dollars: a fortune that had grown steadily through the assiduous husbandry of three generations of Sommerfields. Arthur was a widower who had only been married once (another rarity in Florida), to Arlene, who had died of breast cancer some seven years earlier. He had two children, Chester and Joni, both of whom lived abroad. Chester worked for an engineering company in Brazil, and was married with three children, while his sister Joni had recently become engaged to a landscape gardener in Montreal. Although they both wrote to their father regularly, and phoned most Sundays, visits were less frequent.

Six weeks later, after a slower than usual courtship, Lynn was transferred to the private wing of Dr. William Grove, who was the personal physician of her would-be victim.

Dr. Grove was under the illusion that the only reason Lynn had sought the transfer was so she could be near him. He was impressed by how seriously the young nurse took her responsibilities. She was always willing to work unsociable hours, and never once complained about having to do overtime, especially after he’d informed her that poor Mr. Sommerfield didn’t have much longer to live.

Lynn quickly settled into a daily routine that ensured her patient’s every need was attended to. Mr. Sommerfield’s preferred morning paper, the International Herald Tribune, and his favorite beverage, a mug of hot chocolate, were to be found on his bedside table moments after he woke. At ten, she would help Arthur—he insisted she call him Arthur—to get dressed. At eleven, they would venture out for their morning constitutional round the grounds, during which he would always cling onto her. She never once complained about which part of her anatomy he clung onto.

After lunch she would read to the old man until he fell asleep, occasionally Steinbeck, but more often Chandler. At five, Lynn would wake him so that he could watch repeats of his favorite television sitcom, The Phil Silvers Show, before enjoying a light supper.

At eight, she allowed him a single glass of malt whiskey—it didn’t take her long to discover that only Glenmorangie was acceptable—accompanied by a Cuban cigar. Both were frowned upon by Dr. Grove, but encouraged by Lynn.

“We just won’t tell him,” Lynn would say before turning out the light. She would then slip a hand under the sheet, where it would remain until Arthur had fallen into a deep, contented sleep. Something else she didn’t tell the doctor about.

One of the tenets of the Jackson Memorial Hospital was to make sure that patients were sent home when it became obvious they had only a few weeks to live.

“Much more pleasant to spend your final days in familiar surroundings,” Dr. Grove explained to Lynn. “And besides,” he added in a quieter voice, “it doesn’t look good if everyone who comes to Jackson Memorial dies here.”

On hearing the news of his imminent discharge—which, loosely translated, meant demise—Arthur refused to budge unless Lynn was allowed to accompany him. He had no intention of employing an agency nurse who didn’t understand his daily routine.

“So, how would you feel about leaving us for a few weeks?” Dr. Grove asked her in the privacy of his office.

“I don’t want to leave you, William,” she said, taking his hand, “but if it’s what you want me to do . . .”

“We wouldn’t be apart for too long, honey,” Dr. Grove said, taking her in his arms. “And in any case, as his physician, I’d have to visit the old man at least twice a week.”

“But he could live for months, possibly years,” said Lynn, clinging to him.

“No, darling, that’s not possible. I can assure you it will be a few weeks at the most.” Dr. Grove was not able to see the smile on Lynn’s face.

Ten days later, Arthur J. Sommerfield was discharged from Jackson Memorial and driven to his home in Bel Air.

He sat silently in the back seat, holding Lynn’s hand. He didn’t speak until the chauffeur had driven through a pair of crested wrought-iron gates and up a long driveway, and brought the car to a halt outside a vast redbrick mansion.