Tampered by Ross Pennie Page A

dipped his chin and looked pointedly at his friend. “And from memory. North Africa. ’43. Those are the Atlas Mountains.”
    Natasha’s tongue went so dry she could hardly get the words out. “You . . . you painted that? You . . . you were there?”
    “We both were,” said Mr. Greenwood. “Canadian Army. Along-side the Gurkhas and damn good fighting men from India. We were seconded to the British.”
    She didn’t know what to say. Her grandfather had fought in North Africa but spoke very little about it. He’d died at home in Delhi more than a decade ago. Had he met these Canadians, or others like them, during the war? These two gentlemen hadn’t blocked their memories, and they still retained their sense of humour and a wholesome affection for each other. She wished she’d known her grandfather as more than a cheerless old man with a raspy cough.
    The intensity of Art Greenwood’s unexpected talent overwhelmed her. She stared again at the painting, then down at her notebook. It was several moments before any of the words on the page made any sense to her.
    She forced herself back to her agenda, to reviewing the data she’d collected on her previous visits to the Lodge. She’d already gone for the obvious targets.
    She tapped her scribbler. “There’s obviously something I’ve missed. Something crucial. I just wish . . .”
    “What about the soup?” Mr. Greenwood said.
    “Oh, Art. You’re always going on about the soup,” said Professor Crabtree.
    “Well, I can’t help it. I hate cold soup.”
    “Like vichyssoise and gazpacho?” Natasha asked.
    Mr. Greenwood thumped the handlebar of his scooter. “I mean soup that’s supposed to be hot but is served barely lukewarm. In a cold bowl, to boot.”
    Natasha made a note about the soup, more to keep Mr. Greenwood happy than anything else. The lab had looked for pathogens in the sample of soup Dr. Zol took last week, but had found none. Of course, negative results on one batch didn’t put Nick’s soup completely in the clear. If soup was kept lukewarm for prolonged periods, and never heated above seventy degrees Celsius, it would be ideal for keeping microbes alive. Perhaps she could divide the residents into soup-eaters and non-soup-eaters, then compare the incidence of gastro in the two groups.
    “I’ve been thinking about our pills,” Mr. Greenwood said. “Vik Horvat, our pharmacist, has had more than his share of distractions lately. And that’s got me worried.”
    “Come now, Art. Betty and the others have some sort of infection,” Professor Crabtree said. “What’s that got to do with Vik and our pills?”
    “All I’m saying is that if Miss Sharma is interested in everything we put in our mouths, she ought to look at our pills. We sure swallow a hell of a lot of them.”
    “Viktor Horvat may have his troubles,” the professor said, “and I grant you, his English is atrocious. But he’s a damn good pharmacist.” He waved a finger, reminding Natasha of Dr. Wakefield when he was about to make an important point. It seemed to go with the academic territory. Unlike Dr. Wakefield’s, there was nothing sleek about Professor Crabtree’s index finger. It was gnarled at the tip, like her grandmother’s. “He keeps everything organized for us in those little blister things.”
    “He supplies your medications in convenience packaging?” asked Natasha.
    Mr. Greenwood nodded. “Does it for everyone here, except for the three show-offs.”
    Professor Crabtree caught Natasha’s puzzled look and explained that Camelot had three residents who made a big deal of not needing prescription medications. He tipped his head to the far side of the room where the two ladies were poring over their jigsaw puzzle. “The puzzle sisters — Maude and Myrtle — only take multi-vitamins. Those puzzle pieces are so damn small, good eyesight must run in their family.”
    “And Phyllis, of course,” added Mr. Greenwood, “takes only a baby