3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (5 page)

Shirley sighed. “If only it were that simple. I need the program staffed forty hours a week. Normally, that would be Mondays through Fridays, but the person I was able to hire to replace Kara can’t give me that many hours each week. The additional person I hired for the remaining hours is the one who quit on me.”

I placed the clipboard on the edge of Shirley’s desk. “Before I start in on paperwork, I need my responsibilities outlined. I don’t know what Kara told you, but I have no training as an art therapist.”

“You went to art school, right?”

“Yes.”

“And I know you must do crafts, given what you mentioned yesterday. Any teaching experience?”

“Prior to working at the magazine, I taught art in the public school system for several years.”

She clapped her hands together. “What could be more perfect? As far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Pollack, you’re abundantly qualified. Think of this as running a school arts and crafts program. Except instead of kids, you’ve got geriatric students. You give them projects, supervise them, help those having trouble.”

“That’s it?”

“In a nutshell. Most of the men and women who will take advantage of weekend classes have worked with their hands throughout their lives. They know what to do, but now because of advancing age, they often have trouble completing tasks that were once second nature to them.”

“Lyndella Wegner and the other women I saw in the needlework class yesterday must be the exceptions. Those women needed no help.”

“To some extent, but even they have their good days and bad days. They mostly need praise, guidance, and encouragement, but just wait until it rains and their arthritis acts up. They become very frustrated and depressed.”

“So I’m more a proctor than anything?” Or babysitter.

“Your job will be to help when needed. Propose new projects when current ones are completed. Demonstrate techniques to those interested in trying something new.

“I’d also like you to get them more interested in crafting for various charities like Caps for Kids. We get great PR for Sunnyside out of that, and I’d like to see more of it.”

Translation: Shirley wanted her picture in the newspaper more often.

“Finally,” she continued, “you’ll need to organize rotating exhibits of our residents’ art works in the lobby and commons areas.”

“I’m assuming these exhibits are G-rated? Nothing from Lyndella Wegner’s
Blue
Period?”

Shirley’s face hardened. “Definitely not.”

“And Lyndella’s okay with that? She strikes me as a woman who likes to call the shots rather than take orders.”

“She has no choice in the matter. We have children who come to visit their grandparents. I don’t need a lawsuit on my hands because someone’s five year old was traumatized by a six-foot penis.”

“I hope that was hyperbole.”

Shirley gave a sigh of frustration. “So far, but with Lyndella one never knows.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on a neat stack of file folders. Her business-like demeanor returned, and her voice grew serious. “As people age, tasks that once seemed simple become difficult, even for those without any underlying medical conditions. Self-esteem often plummets. These classes and the exhibits are a form of creative social work, a way of making our residents feel useful and appreciated.”

“Where does the therapy come in?” I had college friends who went on to do masters programs in art therapy. There had to be more to an art therapy major than what Shirley Hallstead just described.

“You don’t need to worry yourself about that. We have the trained therapist, Kara’s replacement, on staff during the week for those who need such services. You’ll work with those who want to avail themselves of the arts and crafts room on the weekends, the full-time residents in independent housing and assisted living, not our rehab patients.”

I could do that. Then again, so could most seventeen year old day camp counselors. Maybe Kara had been mistaken about the pay. “Kara mentioned thirty-five dollars an hour?”

Shirley changed the subject. “Have you noticed the watercolors hanging in the lobby and hallways throughout Sunnyside?”

I had, but I didn’t see how they connected to a thirty-five
dollars an hour salary. When I nodded, she continued. “They were all painted by Mildred Burnbaum, a retired art teacher and deceased Sunnyside resident. Mrs. Burnbaum left Sunnyside the collection as well as a yearly grant for the express purpose of staffing art classes with qualified personnel. As a former teacher, she realized the importance of such programs, especially for the elderly. The bequest stipulates the number of hours a week and the salary, adjusted each year to the cost of living index.”

“Generous woman.”

“Indeed.” Shirley gave me another tight-lipped smile. “It’s one of the reasons that Sunnyside has such an excellent reputation. Our residents don’t sit around watching television all day. However, if we don’t comply with the terms of the grant, we lose the money. Permanently. We’re back to staffing a part-time art therapist a few hours a week and no one to run an arts and crafts program for the non-rehab residents.”

Sounded exactly like the public schools statewide. I couldn’t go back to teaching had I wanted to. School districts no longer had money for the arts in their budgets. “That would be a shame,” I said.

Shirley agreed with a nod. “The overseer of the trust, Mildred’s oldest son, is a greedy, anal bastard, prone to surprise visits. He’s hoping to catch us in noncompliance one of these days so he no longer has to share his mother’s estate with us. That’s why I need the program staffed forty hours a week without interruption and why I was put in such a bind yesterday.”

This explained Kara’s high octane sales pitch. She must have just learned that she’d have no job to come back to after her maternity leave if Shirley didn’t find a last-minute replacement for the teacher who'd bailed on her. Chad might be making big bucks with the Giants, but Kara wasn’t about to give up her shop-till-you-drop funds without pulling out every available stop. Lucille’s stint at Sunnyside turned out to be a bit of financial serendipity for both of us.

I was having trouble reconciling the two sides of Shirley Hallstead. Yesterday she tried to nix my article, saying she didn’t want Sunnyside looking like Kitsch Central. Now she was taking pride in the same programs that produced those projects, milking them for all the PR she could. Maybe she was fine with crafts as long as they didn’t extend beyond knitted baby caps for preemies and sweaters for the homeless, as long as she got something out of it.

Then again, we all have our good days and bad days, no matter our age. I’m certainly not above unleashing my inner bitch when I get overwhelmed. Maybe yesterday was just one of Shirley’s bad days, given what she’d just told me, and she overreacted to the magazine article.

I redirected the conversation back to soliciting the answers I needed. “Kara wasn’t certain about the number of hours. She said between eight and twelve.”

“I need ten from you. Kara’s replacement was going to work twenty-eight hours a week, but she agreed to increase to thirty yesterday. How you break those ten hours up over the weekend is your decision, but if at all possible, try not to start before nine-thirty or finish after five-thirty.”

“Why is that?”

“Our residents often have trouble getting up in the morning and many like an early dinner.”

“I can work around your request.”

“Thank you.” She lifted the clipboard from the corner of the desk and handed it back to me. “As soon as you fill out those forms, you can get yourself situated. For today you’ll have to follow the posted schedule.” She handed me a separate sheet of paper. “You can make any changes you want for the remainder of the weekend and thereafter. Just let the receptionist at the front desk know before the end of today so she can notify the residents of any changes.”

I scanned the schedule. The next two days included classes in painting and drawing; pottery; sculpture; needlework, quilting, and sewing; scrap crafts; decoupage; beadwork and jewelry; and paper crafts and scrapbooking. “This will work out fine,” I told her.

“Great. Just leave the paperwork on my desk when you’re finished. I’m going to head out.” She stood to leave. “Oh, one other thing. Can you also work six hours on Monday this week? Kara’s replacement won’t be starting until Tuesday because of the long weekend.”

“Sure.” Who needs a day off when working means another dent in the debt monster?

“Great.” She grabbed her Birkin. “Then I’ll see you Monday.”

“Before you go—”

“Yes?”

“My mother-in-law really misses her dog. Would it be okay if I brought him to visit with her on the weekends while I’m here?”

“She’s not capable of walking him yet, is she?”

“I’m really not sure what she’s capable of at this point. She doesn’t want to be here, so that’s a huge incentive to take the rehab seriously, but I’ll walk him before we arrive and again during my lunch break.”

Shirley shrugged. “I don’t see why not as long as he doesn’t bother any of the other residents or their pets. She can’t let him run loose around the facility.”

“Mephisto’s more a lummox than a dog. He’ll spend most of his time sleeping on her bed.”

“Mephisto?”

“Long story.”

“Another time, then.” And without so much as a wave of her arm, she exited her office, leaving me with a clipboard full of blank forms.

I glanced at my watch. No way would I ever finish before my first group of students arrived. I tucked the clipboard under my arm and headed for the arts and crafts room. The forms could wait until lunchtime.

Since I passed Lucille’s room on the way, I decided to pop in to tell her that I’d bring Mephisto to visit her tomorrow. As I pushed the door open, it flew from my hands. Reggie, the anorexic-looking aide from yesterday, froze in front of me, her face drained of color, her eyes huge with fear.

“She … she’s … she’s dead!”

four

“Who’s dead?” When Reggie
didn’t answer, I grabbed her toothpick thin arms as delicately as possible, afraid that I’d break a bone, and gently shook her. “Focus, Reggie. Who’s dead? Lucille?”

“You wish,” came my mother-in-law’s booming voice from within the room.

Reggie shook her head. “Lyn … Lyndella. I came to check on her
because she never showed up for breakfast.”

I stepped into the room and found Lucille dressed in her lime green and orange paisley pantsuit, sitting upright in the recliner next to her bed. She had accessorized the outfit with her usual scowl. “At least I won’t have to listen to that woman’s incessant prattle any more,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe what went on here last night.”

I’m sure I’d hear about it whether I wanted to or not but not now.
I hurried across the room and pulled back the curtain separating Lyndella’s half of the room from Lucille’s half. On her back with the quilt pulled up to her chin, Lyndella appeared to be sleeping peacefully. I placed my fingers alongside her neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. I pulled back the quilt and tried her wrist. Still nothing. Lyndella Wegner was definitely dead.

Reggie still stood in the doorway, still looked scared out of her mind. “Shirley Hallstead just left,” I told her. “See if you can catch her in the parking lot.”

Reggie nodded, but her feet remained planted.

Oh jeez
! “Haven’t you ever seen a dead body before?”

She shook her head.

How on earth had she gone through a nurse’s aide program without coming in contact with at least a few dead bodies? Hell, I’m a magazine editor, and I’m averaging a dead body every few months lately.

I tossed my purse and the clipboard onto Lucille’s bed and dashed out of the room. If Shirley had stopped to use the restroom or chat with someone on her way out, she might still be in the parking lot. I raced down the hall to the information desk. “Where’s the employee parking lot?” I shouted, startling the receptionist. Her hand flew to her overly abundant chest emblazoned with a silver glitter
Jerseylicious
spelled out across a turquoise T-shirt.

“Out back.”

“Is that where Shirley Hallstead parks?”

She nodded vigorously, causing her enormous chandelier earrings to keep swinging back and forth long after the nod ended.

Crap
! No way would she still be around by the time I made my way to the back of the sprawling complex. “Do you have her cell number?”

“I’m only supposed to call her in an emergency.”

“Is a dead resident considered an emergency?”

She grabbed the handset and began pushing buttons. “Who died?”

“Lyndella Wegner.”

“About time.”

I spun around to find Mabel Shapiro leaning on her rhinestone festooned walker. “That good-for-nothing Southern hussy’s been a thorn in everyone’s patootie from the moment she moved in twenty years ago. Swore she’d outlast us all.” Mabel chuckled. “Guess we got the last laugh, huh? And now the self-proclaimed Empress of Everything won’t be in your magazine article. That’s what I call divine justice, hon.”

Wow! Few things ever leave me speechless, but I had no idea how to respond to Mabel. I needn’t have worried. As I stood there with my mouth gaping open, she spun around and shuffled her rotund, squat self down the hall.

The clock in the lobby told me I’d be seriously late for my first class if I didn’t hustle. So I headed back to Lucille’s room. Both she and her wheelchair were gone, probably off to therapy of some sort. I grabbed my purse and the clipboard and headed for the arts and crafts room. I’d tell Lucille about Mephisto later. Or maybe I’d just surprise her tomorrow.

I arrived in the arts and crafts room to find a dozen elderly men and women crowded around Mabel and her walker as they all reveled in having outlived Lyndella Wegner. “I’m going to throw a party,” said Mabel, “and you’re all invited.”

“A wake?” I asked, horning my way into the crowd of nine women and four men.

“A celebration.” She beamed like the newly crowned Empress of Everything. The woman was definitely enjoying Lyndella Wegner’s demise a tad too much, even for diehard, longtime rivals.

“Isn’t that a bit harsh?”

“You didn’t know Lyndella,” said another woman in the group. “That two-bit strumpet made everyone’s life a living hell.”

“Damn right,” said a third woman. “She had a way of yanking the happy out of everyone.” She then broke out in an off-key rendition of
Ding Dong the Witch is Dead
, only she substituted
bitch
for
witch
. Everyone joined in.

“Wasn’t there anyone who liked her?” I asked when the singing had died down. “Did she have any friends or family who came to visit?”

“No one cared about that old floozy except the old floozy herself,” said Mabel. “If she had any family, they never bothered to visit.”

“She never mentioned any family,” said another woman. “All she ever talked about was herself.”

If Lyndella had no friends or family, with whom had she been speaking on the phone Friday morning?

“Good riddance,” muttered one of the men under his breath. “Hell’s too good for that one.”

“As for friends,” said a fourth woman, “Lyndella only knew how to hurt and annoy people. Who wants to befriend someone who takes pleasure in making everyone else miserable?”

“Nothing anyone did was ever good enough or up to her high standards,” chimed in another woman. “As far as she was concerned, we were all inferior beings. In every way.”

That’s where the similarities between Lyndella and my mother-in-law ended. As nasty as she was to just about everyone, Lucille did have her fellow Daughters of the October Revolution. Those women worshipped at the feet of their glorious leader, even if their worship didn’t extend to offering her a place to live.

“Who are you, anyway?” asked a second man who appeared several years younger than the others. He sported a lame gray comb-over and a huge blue and purple shiner under his right eye. Beyond those two defining features and the paint-splotched smock he wore,
nondescript
best described him, a run-of-the-mill average old guy—average height, average weight, average looks—someone who left no lasting impression.

However, he had provided me with the opening I needed to change the subject and start the class. “I’m Anastasia Pollack. I’ll be running the arts and crafts program on weekends for the next few months.”

“That’s the one who’s going to put us in her magazine, Dirk,” said Mabel.

“That so?” he asked.

“If you’d like,” I said.

“We getting paid?” asked a third man.

“No.”

“Then what’s in it for us?” asked the man who’d commented on hell being too good a place for Lyndella Wegner.

“We’ll be celebrities, Murray,” said Mabel.

“Celebrities get paid,” he said. “You want me in your magazine, you pay me.”

“Can’t do that, Murray. We’ll have to leave you out of the spread.”

Murray muttered something under his breath as he shuffled off to one of the pottery wheels.

“Don’t pay him no mind,” said the woman who’d started the singing. “Like all of us, Murray’s on a fixed income. The economy has really taken a bite out of our savings. Some of us are having a hard time staying at Sunnyside. Many have already downsized from apartments to single rooms. Others have traded in singles for doubles in order to remain here.”

“We could all use a little extra cash,” added one of the other women.

“Murray’s a sweetheart, though,” said Mabel. “There isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for us. Right girls?” The other women all nodded in agreement.

Mabel jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. When I turned toward her she whispered, “Not to mention a cutie-patootie, if you know what I mean.”

I glanced over at Murray and saw no evidence of a cutie, patootie or otherwise, only a slightly hunched and more than slightly balding elderly man with a scruffy beard, hair sprouting from his ears, a bulbous nose, wiry unibrow, and threadbare chinos belted far too high above his waist. To each his own. Or judging from the male/female ratio, maybe beggars couldn’t be choosers at Sunnyside.

I smiled at Mabel before addressing the group. “Why don’t you all show me what you’ve been working on?”

_____

By the time three-thirty rolled around, exhaustion had invaded every tendon and muscle of my body. My feet burned from standing, and my head throbbed. My facial muscles ached from keeping a friendly smile plastered across my face even though I wanted to give the residents of Sunnyside an extremely large piece of my mind. I hadn’t seen such relish over the demise of another human
being since the SEAL Team 6 put a bullet through the head of Osama
bin Laden.

On my way out, I handed the receptionist at the front desk the clipboard of forms that I’d filled out during my lunch break. “Sorry I startled you earlier.” I extended my right hand. “I’m Anastasia Pollack, by the way. I’ll be working here on the weekends for the next few months.”

“April May. Nice to meet you.” When I raised my eyebrows, she shrugged and added, “My parents had a warped sense of humor.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve got a mother who thinks she’s a Russian princess.”

She gave me a puzzled look. “Is she?”

“Highly unlikely.” I guess she’d never heard of Grand Duchess Anastasia. April appeared to be in her early twenties. Maybe they were no longer teaching the Russian Revolution wherever she’d gone to school. “Your name certainly makes you stand out in a crowd,” I added.

She pointed to her
Jerseylicious
boobs, a minimum triple D cup on what was otherwise a size four body, and offered up a huge belly laugh. “Girl, these make me stand out enough!”

Her boobs, as well as her head of dreadlocks and enormous earrings, bobbed in tempo with her laugh. April had obviously inherited her parents’ sense of humor.

However, I was surprised that Shirley Hallstead allowed such a lax dress code for her receptionist, given her own obvious pen
chant for power suits. After all, April was the official Sunnyside greeter, the first person people encountered as they stepped into the lobby, and Shirley struck me as someone decidedly averse to nose rings, dreadlocks, and billboard chests.

Maybe she was eye candy for prospective male residents. It didn’t matter to me. I asked her to see that Shirley got the forms, then waved good-bye and told her I’d see her around. I didn’t bother checking in on Lucille. My body couldn’t tolerate a pain in the ass on top of all the other pain.

Less than two miles separated Sunnyside from my house. Even though the mercury had hovered in the high nineties all day, I didn’t bother turning on the air conditioning in my rust-bucket Hyundai. The engine would only blow hot air for that short distance. I rolled down all four windows, settled into the oven on wheels, and headed home, stoked by thoughts of soaking in a cool tub once I arrived.

The Karma gods had other plans for me.