Case of the Missing Husband

Walter Miles plunged the tea bag into a cup of boiling water, dunking it in and out. He studied the septuagenarian before him as her eyes darted around the room nervously, handbag clutched in her lap.

She had wandered into the office, unannounced, in the middle of his tea break.

“Are you sure I can’t make you a cup, Mrs Wintringham?” Walter pressed a spoon against the tea bag, squeezing the excess liquid. He liked it strong.

“Oh, no, thank you, I’m not much of a tea drinker, I’m afraid.” She smiled weakly. “Not like my Henry. He’d never say no to a cuppa.”

Noticing her eyes welling up with tears, Walter set his mug aside and gently slid a box of tissues across the desk towards her.

“Sorry,” she said, sniffing loudly into a Kleenex. “I’m just so worried. It’s not like Henry to go off without telling me.”

“How long has he been gone?” Walter asked, carrying on with his tea-making ritual. He tore open a corner of the creamer, tipping the contents into the mug bit by bit, stirring vigorously. He hated lumps.

“Oh, um,” she paused, a frown forming across her face.

When she took a moment too long to answer, he repeated the question.

“About a week, I’d say.”

“A week?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And how exactly do you think I can help?” he asked, tapping his teaspoon against the mug and setting it on the desk. He had decided to skip the sugar for today.

“Well, you’re a Private Investigator, aren’t you?”

Walter’s eyes narrowed at her question.

“I thought you could help track him down for me,” she continued.

Lifting the mug to his lips, he slurped his tea, savouring that first sip. He only wished he had a biscuit.

“Excuse me, Mr Miles?”

He’d almost forgotten she was there.

“Aren’t you going to write any of this down?”

“Oh, right, of course.” Walter grabbed a pad of paper and scribbled down a few key words. “Okay, so, you’d like me to track down your husband, who left your home a week ago and didn’t tell you where he was going."

“Exactly,” she said with a grin that revealed lipstick stains on her front teeth.

“Mrs Wintringham,” he started, choosing his words carefully, “have you considered the possibility that your husband could be…”

He turned his palms upward.

“Dead?” she finished for him.

Nodding, he shifted in his chair.

“No, Mr Miles. You see, all of his things are gone. His side of the wardrobe is empty, like he packed up and left.”

“Any idea why he'd leave like that? Did you two quarrel?”

“I have a theory.”

Slowly, she tore her tear-soaked tissue into small pieces, letting them fall onto the table between them.

“Shirley Wilkinson.”

“Shirley…Wilkinson?”

“She always had eyes for my Henry. Constantly asking him to come over to fix this or that. Her husband has been dead for several years, you see. Couldn’t wait for her chance to steal mine from me.” The shredding continued until the desk was confettied with remains of her Kleenex.

“So, you believe your husband ran away with a woman called Shirley?”

Walter’s half-drunk mug of tea sat forgotten on the desk.

“Oh, it's more than possible, Mr Miles. A real vixen that one.” Her lined cheeks flushed crimson.

“Let’s say your theory is true, and that I succeed in tracking down your husband. Then what?”

“Good question, Mr Miles. I would need your utmost discretion, of course.”

“Of course.”

“The thing is,” she lowered her voice and leaned closer. “If Henry has run away with that vile woman, then I don’t know if I can be trusted…”

She glanced left and right, agitated.

“Apologies, I don’t quite follow.”

“I’m talking about murder, Mr Miles,” she said with a straight face.

Luckily for the speechless Walter, at that precise moment, the office door flung open, revealing a middle-aged woman dressed in a pale pink uniform. She looked at them in surprise.

“There you are!” She sounded out of breath.

“Ah, Nurse Shirley.” Walter smiled.

“Miriam, we’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

“You have?” Miriam Wintringham looked at the nurse askance. For a brief moment, her eyes flickered with recognition.

“Sorry, I’m...” Miriam pressed a hand to her throat. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling so well."

“That’s okay, dear, it’s been an emotional morning, it seems.” Shirley eyed the mess of tissues and flashed Walter a look.

“Let’s get you back to your room, shall we?”

They walked towards the door, Shirley leading the way. But before she could be ushered out, Miriam fished something out of her bag and turned to Walter.

“Here, Mr Miles, an advanced payment, so you can get on this case right away.”

Walter recognised the multicoloured banknotes as the Monopoly money from the games room.

“Will you help find my husband?”

“I’ll do everything I can,” he replied. He placed a hand on hers. “You have my word.”

Once they had left, Walter let out a heavy sigh.

Poor Miriam.

He remembered when she’d first arrived at Pinewood Elderly Care, not long after he had started, always immaculately dressed and full of life. She was already a widow, so he’d never met her deceased husband, Henry.

It pained him to see her so frail now.

Grabbing her file, he flipped through it. On a blank page, he scribbled a few progress notes, his hands trembling slightly.

Patient is showing signs of worsening cognitive decline and appears highly distressed. An increased dose of quetiapine is indicated.

He squinted at his scrawled handwriting. It looked more slanted than usual. Without thinking, he reached for his mug, took a sip and spat it back out. Nothing worse than cold tea.

Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” he said, wiping his mouth.

Opening the door carefully this time, Nurse Shirley stepped through the threshold.

“Everything okay with Miriam?” Walter asked.

“Yes, she’ll be fine.”

“This is the worst I’ve seen her. She thought I was a private investigator,” Walter chuckled.

Shirley opened her mouth to speak, but then seemed to stop herself. Something about her was off, but Walter decided to ignore it.

“I’ve increased her dose of quetiapine; it’s in the file.”

“Oh?”

Shirley placed a hand on the chair where Miriam had been sitting. “Okay then, we’ll make sure to implement that.”

“Good.”

Walter noticed she was hovering.

“Anything else I can help you with, Nurse?” he asked, trying not to let his irritation show.

“Well,” she spoke tentatively. “I came over to check whether you needed a break.”

“A break?”

“Yes, you must be tired after a long day of seeing patients.”

Walter could have sworn it was only mid-morning. He must have lost track of time. Lifting himself out of his chair, knees cracking like gunshots, he moved towards the filing cabinet.

That’s when he noticed them—the slippers on his feet. Why on earth would he have come to work in slippers?

He opened the filing cabinet. It was empty. Feeling slightly muddled, he looked around, taking in the mops and broomsticks in the corner, the broken office chair and dust-coated desk.

“Where am I?”

“Come on, Walter,” Shirley said, appearing by his side. “You wandered off and got yourself lost.”

Walter let himself be guided towards the exit of the storage room.

“Had the whole place in a tizzy, searching for the two of you,” she added.

Stepping past the desk, he eyed the wad of cash Miriam had left him.

“How about we stop by the cafeteria for a cup of tea? The kitchen’s just brought out a fresh batch of those cookies you like, the chocolate chip ones.”

“Delightful,” he replied, cheering up at the idea.

He slipped the plastic notes discreetly into his pocket, deciding he might as well take the money. After all, there was a lot of work to be done if he was to find that poor woman’s husband.