Elsewhere…

His shift in the kitchen having ended, Lawrence didn’t mind escorting Mr. Burton back to his room after dinner. It was on his way out anyway. He kept pace with the elderly gentleman as he worked his way down the thickly carpeted hall — past the pair of cockatiels who served as pets for the east wing, past the orange construction paper notice of the week’s activities for Sunset Gardens residents, past doorways from which the occasional cough arose. 

With a slight tremor in his voice, Mr. Burton remarked, “Lawrence, you do make a lovely chicken pot pie.”

“Thank you, Mr. Burton.”

“I mean it. That is a real gift you have there.”

“I’m glad you enjoy it, Mr. Burton.”

“Call me Edward, Lawrence. And do not take that lightly, please. It’s not as if I would eat just any old chicken pot pie, you know. These days I have to be much more careful about my diet, and your chicken pot pie is a treat for which I save myself.” Mr. Burton laughed. “It isn’t easy, what with the women on this wing doing everything in their power to fatten me up. They absolutely barrage me with cookies and muffins and cakes…”

Edward Burton must have cut a fine figure in his day. His strong jaw still jutted proudly from sagging cheeks. And although it had softened and wrinkled, you could tell by comparing his build to the other male residents that Mr. Burton had a very athletic youth. He liked to dress well, too — the only resident at Sunset Gardens to wear an ascot to the dining room.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Burton. All the women do think highly of you.”

“Please, Lawrence, just Edward. And I have no interest in anything any of them are offering me, not from their kitchens nor any other room of theirs.”

“You sure about that, Mr. Burton. Seems to me like you could have a lot of years left. Might not be bad having a little company to enjoy it with, right?”

“If I’ve managed to make it this long without having a wife thrust upon me, then I see no reason I should give up the fight now. Besides, I think I’m in pretty good company as it is.” He smiled at Lawrence.

“Thank you, Mr. Burton.”

“Please, call me Edward.”

“Yes, Mr. Edward.”

“Oh, honestly…” he chuckled.

They came to Mr. Burton’s door, and Lawrence paused there to let him unlock it. More like a cave than anything, that’s how Lawrence would describe Mr. Burton’s little apartment. He kept the window perpetually curtained, admitting only the faintest light from the world outside. The only illumination came from a few dim lamps, their glow only just bright enough for reading.

And a cave of wonders it was too, not full of the usual sentimental knick-knacks kept by other residents. Lawrence turned his gaze to the shelves that held a bronze scarab that might have come from a real Egyptian mummy for all he knew, a knife with wooden sheath and woven handle that looked like a miniature samurai sword, and some kind of theater mask with a long, pointed nose.

“You sure have some wild stuff, Mr. Burton,” said Lawrence. “Must’ve lived an interesting life.”

Mr. Burton set his walker aside and took hold of the cane he used in that smaller space. Its silver-plated Derby handle gleamed at the end of a richly textured snakewood shaft.

“That’s a curse you know, a Chinese curse. ‘May you live in interesting times.’ To live in a peaceful time, boring even, that is a blessing.” He turned to gaze to the shelves that had caught Lawrence’s attention and, for a moment, appeared to yield to the pull of memory before looking up sharply with a smile. “Don’t suppose I could entice you to stay for just a little longer by offering a bit of brandy an old friend sent me?”

“Sorry, Mr. Burton. I gotta get going.”

“Of course, my boy.” He saw Lawrence out and locked the door behind him — not to keep anyone out, but to keep someone in.

As he turned back inside, Edward adjusted his grip on his cane. “It’s no use,” he said to whoever it was he knew was there but had not yet seen. “You haven’t got room to stay hidden, although I suspect you know better than to try to hide from me.”

Few others could have recognized the signs of the intruder’s presence. It came not from a psychic sense of the atmosphere of his home. Edward had learned to notice the tiniest of details — been not just trained but raised to, in fact. 

A slight shift of the stack of papers on the kitchen counter suggested someone had brushed past them during his absence. And a couple of the photos held by magnets to his refrigerator door had slipped ever-so subtly. The intruder had not been able to resist touching them. 

“Come and face me,” said Edward.

No one did.

“Very well, then. You want to do this? All right. Let’s do this.” 

Edward began to prowl his apartment with shuffling steps. His right leg dragged a little. To keep his cane ready to swing, he braced himself with his left hand against the hall door, the kitchen counter, the back of a chair… 

“And what must you be calling yourself, my shy friend? Present-day incarnation of the Puzzle Prince, perhaps? Or maybe the Shadowmaster? Blue Banshee?”

At a hint of motion, Edward spun around and nearly toppled over. There, in the unlit hall just outside his bathroom, stood the intruder, features indistinguishable in the dark.

“Ready to show your face, are you? After all, you’ve managed to see me unmasked.”

The figure stepped forward into the light.

And seeing who it was, Edward eased his stance. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry. I’m afraid you caught me by surprise…”

It was then he felt the first bolt of pain strike. It exploded all along his left side and clenched his long-suffering heart. His whole body tightened. Edward brought his cane down to steady himself, but the second bolt struck, and his legs crumpled underneath him.

He knew that he had broken a bone in his fall, but he also knew that he wasn’t going to have to worry about walking, not anymore, not ever again. This was the end. His body was too old, too weak, too worn, and the poison too strong.

The intruder drew closer with one cautious step and then another.

It must have been administered before Edward had even come back to his apartment, an evil ingredient added to Lawrence’s chicken pot pie perhaps. But it wasn’t enough for his poisoner to simply rest in the knowledge of his impending death. No, they wanted to watch the life drain from him. 

As his vision blurred and darkened, the face that drew close to his was not one to which he could attribute any motivation. Edward had been killed by somebody who wanted to watch him die and he didn’t even know why.

And then he knew nothing at all.