Tampered Read Online Free PDF

The place was as bleak as a hospital ward and always smelled of poop. Its eight beds reminded everyone in the cozy Belvedere Wing that the next stage of the life cycle was waiting for them on the other side of the door — a linoleum-tiled purgatory at the brink of eternity.
    “Poor Melvin,” said Earl. “It rips me apart to see him that way.” The look on Earl’s face said,
We’re all going to end up like that.
“Dementia is so demeaning. Maybe it’s just as well they rarely let him out of his room.”
    Betty looked shocked at the remark. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then pursed her lips in diplomatic silence. During her thirty years as personal assistant to a prime minister and a string of federal cabinet ministers, she’d perfected the art of holding her tongue. In the close quarters of a retirement residence, diplomacy was a valuable skill. And, as far as Art was concerned, it added greatly to her charm. But still, she was no pushover.
    Earl drew his hands to his vest and squared his shoulders. He read Betty’s discomfort and his face softened. “Forgive my candour. But don’t you think it would be awful if one of his former students stumbled in here and saw him raving like that? If it were me, I’d want to be kept well out of sight.”
    Art looked at Earl and nodded his agreement. For years Earl and Melvin, both professors, had offices in the same building at Caledonian University. Earl’s specialty was European history. Melvin’s had been the impact of war on civilian populations. The three of them, Art, Earl, and Melvin, had seen action together in World War Two. North Africa. Of course, everyone at Camelot had lived through the war — as combatants or munitions workers, wireless operators or distressed civilians. The conflict still stalked the halls like a permanent resident.
    Phyllis studied the cards in her hand, too preoccupied with making her three hearts to voice an opinion. Bridge was the only thing that kept her quiet.
    Betty lifted the spoon from her saucer. It tinkled against the china as she stirred her milky tea. “Shall we start? It’s my lead.” As soon as she’d placed her six of diamonds on the table, Art laid his dummy hand face up and left it to Phyllis to make their contracted tricks. He reversed his scooter and headed for the piano.
    The keyboard was locked. Damn. It was supposed to be open every afternoon. Why did Gloria insist on locking it? It wasn’t as though anyone would steal the ivories.
    “Has anyone seen Gloria?” Art called to any of the dozen souls in the common room who might listen.
    A few heads lifted from their jigsaws and knitting, but most eyes stayed closed in afternoon slumber. “What’d he say?” was the general answer from a few puzzled faces squinting from the sofas and wingback chairs.
    A woman named Gertie, with fat red cheeks and an even fatter bottom, dropped her needles to her lap and said, “Honoria? She’s gone, poor thing. Died last year.”
    The elevator pinged and Gloria appeared, leading two men in white shirts and black business suits. Art stiffened at the thought of what they’d be wheeling behind them. Earl had dubbed it running the final gauntlet: being wheeled out of the elevator, past the tall windows lining the far wall of the common room, and out the side exit. All in full view of your friends.
    Gloria tugged at the lapels of her suit jacket as she strode to the middle of the room. Her lips formed a fake smile while her eyes scanned the faces as if looking for trouble. Then came that damn nursery-room whine. “I’m afraid, my dears, I am having some bad news.”
    Art scooted to the bridge table. It was better to be sitting close to your friends when Gloria made one of her pronouncements.
    Phyllis put down her cards. “Are you going to tell us who that was on their way to Craig & Lafferty?”
    “You know I’m not allowed to say, Miss Wedderspoon. It’s our policy that —”
    Phyllis rolled her eyes and muttered,