Chapter 3 - The Locked Cabinet
Charles did not go to the office that day.
That alone frightened everyone who worked for him.
Charles Mercer had gone to work the morning after his father died.
He had taken calls during a fever of 103.
He had once negotiated the financing for a forty-story building from a hospital room after minor surgery.
But at eight forty-five that morning, he called his assistant and cleared everything.
Then he went home and started asking questions.
The first was directed at Rosa Alvarez.
Rosa had been the Mercers’ housekeeper for eleven years.
She stood in the kitchen twisting a dish towel in her hands while Charles sat at the island.
“Mrs. Mercer had a nurse?” she asked.
“A private nurse.”
Rosa shook her head.
“I never knew.”
“Did anyone come through the side entrance?”
“Many people. Deliveries. Flowers. Sometimes therapists.”
“During Eleanor’s final months?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever ask you not to tell me something?”
Rosa hesitated.
Charles noticed.
“Rosa.”
“She once asked me not to mention that she changed the lock on her medicine cabinet.”
Charles went still.
“What?”
“It was maybe two months before…” Rosa stopped.
“Before she died.”
“Yes.”
“Why did she change it?”
“She said Sophie had begun climbing.”
“Sophie was two.”
“That is why it seemed reasonable.”
“Who installed the lock?”
“Mrs. Mercer had someone come.”
“Did anyone get angry about it?”
Rosa looked uncomfortable.
Charles leaned forward.
“Who?”
“I don’t want trouble.”
“You already know there is trouble.”
Rosa lowered her voice.
“Mr. Thomas.”
Charles stared at her.
“Thomas was angry about Eleanor locking her medication?”
“He was not angry exactly.”
“What was he?”
“Annoyed.”
“Why?”
“He said the nurses needed access.”
“What nurses?”
“Hospital nurses. Home-care staff.”
Charles stood.
“Where’s the cabinet?”
Rosa led him upstairs.
Behind a bathroom door adjoining Eleanor’s bedroom stood a white built-in cabinet.
Charles had seen it a thousand times.
He had never looked closely.
A small brass lock sat beneath the handle.
“Do you have the key?”
Rosa shook her head.
“Mrs. Mercer kept it.”
Charles called building maintenance.
Ten minutes later, the lock was open.
The cabinet was empty.
Except for one thing.
A faded strip of blue painter’s tape stuck to the back wall.
Charles peeled it off.
On it, written in Eleanor’s handwriting, were three words.
COUNT THEM YOURSELF.
His stomach turned.
“Did you ever see this?”
Rosa whispered, “No.”
Charles photographed it.
Then he called Rebecca.
She answered on the second ring.
“I found the cabinet.”
Silence.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“You knew she changed the lock.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
Charles nearly shouted.
Instead he closed his eyes.
“What did she mean by ‘count them yourself’?”
Rebecca was quiet.
“She left notes for herself.”
“Why?”
“Because she started doubting her memory.”
“Because of the sedatives?”
“Yes.”
Charles looked at the strip of tape.
“She thought someone was making her confused.”
“Yes.”
He hung up before his anger found the wrong target.
By noon, Charles had requested copies of every household security log from the final six months of Eleanor’s life.
His security chief, Martin Cole, arrived personally.
“I need to know what you’re looking for,” Martin said.
“No.”
“Charles—”
“No.”
Martin had worked for the family for eighteen years.
That suddenly meant less than it had yesterday.
“I want every entry record. Side door, garage, service elevator, front entrance.”
“That’s thousands.”
“Then start printing.”
Martin stared at him.
“Is this about Eleanor?”
Charles looked up.
Martin went quiet.
Interesting.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’re pulling records from that period.”
“Did anything unusual happen?”
Martin shifted.
“A lot was unusual then.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Martin exhaled.
“There were times Mrs. Mercer asked us not to log certain visitors.”
Charles’s hands went still.
“Rebecca Lane?”
Martin frowned.
“I don’t remember the name.”
“Brown-haired nurse. Mid-thirties.”
“I’d have to see a photograph.”
Charles showed him one taken from the restaurant website.
Martin stared.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
Charles felt something inside him crack.
“You saw her.”
“Several times.”
“And you never told me.”
“Your wife specifically requested privacy.”
“I was her husband.”
“She was an adult.”
Charles looked away.
The answer was correct.
He hated it anyway.
“What other visitors did she hide?”
Martin thought.
“One attorney.”
“Name?”
“I’d need the log.”
“One attorney?”
“And I think someone from a private lab.”
Charles stared at him.
Rebecca had not mentioned an attorney.
Or a lab.
The mystery was widening.
That afternoon, Charles picked Sophie up from school himself.
She climbed into the car holding a paper crown covered in glitter.
“You came!”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to.”
She accepted this without suspicion.
On the drive home, Charles tried to keep his questions gentle.
“Do you remember Mommy’s medicine cabinet?”
Sophie looked at him.
“The white one?”
“Yes.”
“Mommy said no touch.”
“Do you remember anyone opening it?”
Sophie stared out the window.
Charles waited.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
A minute passed.
Then Sophie said, “Uncle Thomas was mad.”
Charles’s heart tightened.
“About the cabinet?”
She shrugged.
“Mommy said, ‘Give it back.’”
“Give what back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was Rebecca there?”
Sophie’s forehead wrinkled.
“No.”
“Who was?”
“Mommy.”
“And Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
She thought.
“Grandma maybe.”
Charles stopped himself from asking too much.
Five-year-olds could be led without meaning to.
He changed the subject.
That night, the security records arrived.
Charles spread them across Eleanor’s old desk.
Rebecca Lane had entered the Mercer residence eleven documented times.
Probably more, according to Martin.
A private lab technician had entered twice.
An attorney named Samuel Greer entered once.
Charles searched the name.
Estate litigation.
Trust management.
Family wealth disputes.
Why had Eleanor met an estate lawyer?
He wrote the question down.
Then another pattern emerged.
Thomas Blake’s access.
Charles had always known Thomas visited frequently.
But not this frequently.
Forty-two visits in three months.
Some lasted ten minutes.
Some lasted hours.
One entry made Charles stop.
October 14.
Thomas arrived at 8:12 p.m.
Eleanor’s medical notes showed a sudden deterioration around midnight.
Charles remembered that night.
He had been in Chicago.
Eleanor had called him at 9:40.
Her speech had sounded slow.
He had told her to sleep.
He had said he loved her.
Then he went back into a meeting.
Charles stared at the date until the numbers blurred.
His phone rang.
Rebecca.
“I found something,” she said.
“So did I.”
“What?”
“Thomas was at the house the night Eleanor’s condition suddenly worsened.”
Silence.
“Rebecca?”
“I know.”
Charles stood.
“You know?”
“She called me that night.”
“What did she say?”
Rebecca’s breathing changed.
“She said someone had been inside the cabinet.”
Charles gripped the phone.
“How did she know?”
“She counted the pills.”
“And?”
“Eight were missing.”
Charles felt cold.
“What happened next?”
“Two hours later, she could barely stay conscious.”
Charles looked again at the security log.
Thomas Blake.
Arrival: 8:12 p.m.
Departure: 8:47 p.m.
Eleanor’s call to Charles: 9:40 p.m.
Emergency physician called: 12:18 a.m.
Charles whispered, “Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“Because Eleanor refused.”
“Why?”
“She still didn’t have proof.”
Charles slammed his palm against the desk.
“She nearly died that night.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t.”
Rebecca went silent.
Charles regretted it instantly.
She did know.
Maybe better than he did.
His gaze dropped to another paper.
A handwritten note from the attending physician.
Medication interaction suspected. Family reports no deviation from prescribed regimen.
Family reports.
Charles circled the words.
“Rebecca.”
“Yes?”
“Who told the doctor there was no deviation?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m going to find out.”
He ended the call.
At 11:30 that night, Charles received the answer.
The attending physician had documented the source.
Thomas Blake.
Charles sat alone in Eleanor’s room.
For years, Thomas had been the man he trusted when Charles could not be there.
Thomas had picked Sophie up from preschool.
Thomas had sat beside Charles at Eleanor’s funeral.
Thomas had held him upright when the casket disappeared beneath white roses.
And Thomas had told the doctor there was no possible medication error.
Charles looked toward the empty cabinet.
May you like
For the first time, suspicion had a face.
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