The first time I heard Ravel’s Bolero, I was in the family garage helping my dad weed his potted succulents. Along with his garden, my dad cultivated the notion that he was an “eccentric.” He could afford to be, he was a well-known and much sought-after film director. After many years with Paramount, he decided to enjoy semi-retirement with his garden and grandkids. Then Veronika came on the scene.
           
Veronika was 26 years his junior, beautiful and very exotic with dark hair and a gothic accent. I didn’t trust her from the start. I suppose the attention of such a woman would stroke any man’s ego, but she was experienced in getting what she wanted and for some reason, she wanted my dad. Oh, she blew though his money, separated him from his family and friends and even tried to discredit his talent, but she ended up with more than she bargained for, much more. This little Bolero in Blahnik boots ended up with an education to die for. But I’m getting ahead of myself and I don’t have a lot of time to tell my tale.
           
She came into our lives very quietly, almost imperceptibly. She wandered into dad’s office at the studio, by mistake she said. She was looking for the writers’ building to apply for a typist position that was posted in HR. Dad apparently liked what he saw and talked to her. He said that she had a cool head and a sharp mind so he hired her himself as his personal secretary.  She slithered into the outer office and set up camp. From there she did her job fully and capably but she also pulled strings in the background, setting herself up in his business and life. They were seen about town doing lunch meetings and then started to get some press at cocktail parties. The gossip rags began spilling ink about dad and his “secretary”. They always used quotes as a journalistic wink and nudge in dad’s direction. Oddly enough, he seemed to enjoy it. I thought the whole thing was revolting and that dad had lost his mind.
           
He lost something, all right. It took her no time at all to move into his home. Soon after, they got a quick wedding aboard a cruise ship heading for the Caribbean. Things seemed to go along nicely for a while. I even second-thought my first impressions of her. Dad was obviously taken with her and enjoyed her company and if she made him happy, why should I fuss? Then it happened.

A mild stroke, they called it. The doctor said that he would recover, but he needed rest. He suggested that Veronika handle his affairs while he convalesced. After all, she was not only his wife, but as his personal secretary she would have access to all the information necessary to keep his projects going until he was stronger and could handle them himself. Well, Little Miss Bolero’s crescendo was now growing quite nicely.
             
She insisted that no one drop in unannounced or unrequested. Dad had to rest, you know. As his daughter, I assumed that my brother and I were the exceptions to the rule. Veronika made it very clear that there were absolutely no exceptions. No one was to disturb her husband without being granted permission beforehand no matter what their previous relationship had been. You can understand how the term, “previous relationship” hit me. I sprinted over there to find out what was going on and discovered that she had changed all the locks on my childhood home. No problem. I sped to the nearest hardware store and bought myself a sledgehammer and turned the front door into toothpicks. Veronika was livid, dad was bemused. He had no idea why no one had come by to visit and was terribly upset to discover the reason. He informed Veronika that he needed company and she was not to interfere again. That night he had another stroke. It was very bad this time. He became paralyzed along the whole right side of his body and it stole his ability to speak. This was the worst for him; his body was now non-responsive, but his mind was crystal clear.

You should know that my dad started out as an acrobat in vaudeville. He had always taken pride in his health and his body. He walked at least a mile every morning of his life with the only exception being the time after my mother died. He said that his spirit had died along with her but felt her urging him onward, back to his routines. Getting back to normalcy would be healthier for him and better for the two children he now had to raise without her.

My husband and I were called out of town for a couple of days due to his business. I told John that I didn’t want to leave dad, but the doctor said that he was stable and that I shouldn’t worry about such a short trip. I reluctantly left town. My husband said that it would do me good to take a breather from the situation, so I went. I shouldn’t have.

Dad died that night. Veronika called me in Phoenix the next morning and said that I needn’t hurry home because she had already made arrangements for the cremation. I couldn’t believe that it could happen so fast, but apparently since he was under a doctor’s constant care, no autopsy was needed. The doctor assured me that he passed peacefully in his sleep and no, he didn’t understand the hurried cremation either, but Veronika was his wife and had the legal right to do what she did. I never got to say good-bye. I think that’s what hurt the most.

I’ve spent the last six years mourning him and wondering what really happened. My life has gone on, but in some respects I’ve obsessed over dad’s last days. I can’t help feeling that there was something else; my intuition screams that something is missing, like an empty spot in an almost finished jigsaw puzzle.

It was now time for me to quietly pull some strings in the background. I had Veronika checked out. I can’t believe that I hadn’t done it sooner, but I guess I wanted to believe in my dad and the choices he made for his life. The private investigator was the best, toughest and highest recommended man I could find. He discovered that Veronika was married before in Germany and her first husband had also died peacefully in his sleep after a series of increasingly significant strokes. 

Apparently, Veronika was quite the chemist in her college days and learned of the little known chemical called terasiam. Terasiam was used in the 19th century as a cure for dementia. It was odorless and tasteless, but very effective in “slowing the demons that fog the mind” as the literature of the time stated. It was also pulled from use when it was discovered that it caused strokes and early death in patients especially past a certain age.

The PI contacted the DA who got a search warrant for the house to see if after six years, any kind of evidence can be found to substantiate our suspicions. I was contacted by someone else entirely.

He was a heavy-set man who looked in his early sixties, balding and with a beer gut. He spoke with a heavy accent of unknown identity. He said that he was a friend of my father’s from a long way back. He found out about the new developments and would like to help me with the situation.

“Your dad was a great man and his name and memory needs to be taken care of.”

“Thank you and I appreciate your concern.”

“It’s not just concern that I’m offering, do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I think I do. But we need to make sure our suspicions are facts.”

“Agreed.”

“Do you want me to contact you when I know the results?”

“Honey, I’ll know before you do.”

And he did. He called three days later and asked how I wanted it done. I told him that I was no slouch in chemistry either and thought it was appropriate that she get some of what she gave. I told him about glucotoxiphase, a drug that is also odorless and tasteless, but definitely does not let the victim die peacefully. It is carried by the sugar in the blood and burns the inner lining of various internal organs, slowly. It takes about four days to painfully go through the system until the victim’s body and mind is so scrambled that they think suicide is the only way of relief. I don’t know how he managed it, but he said that it was his duty and his honor to complete the mission.

My dad and Veronika aren’t the only victims in all of this. I tried to keep my husband out of it. I didn’t want him and the kids to know anything they would have to cover up or need to decide between their love for me and justice of the law in court if the case should arise. Unfortunately, my husband figured it out and it drove a wedge in between us. He stood by me the whole time, but couldn’t understand how the woman he married sixteen years ago could call for someone’s death. I couldn’t believe it either. I felt the change in myself too. It was like being possessed by a creature and not being able to stop it.

Am I sorry I did it? No. But I am sorry for the legacy I’m leaving my family. They are going to have to deal with a whole lot of baggage once this night is over and I’m truly sorry for that.

“Are you ready?”

“So, the tree-huggers didn’t suddenly get the needle outlawed, eh?”

“Not yet.”

“No call from the Gov?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, then.”

“Ready?”