Blind Rage (34 page)

She remembered Matthew’s comment during the morose, drunken dinner conversation about dead parents.

At least they never had to be in a nursing home.

So why did they dump so much money there? The article didn’t say. She tried plugging in just the last name—
VonHader
—and the name of the nursing home. In addition to the donation story, one other Web offering came up. It was the page from an electronic memory book maintained by St. Paul’s daily newspaper, the
Pioneer Press
. The entries—mostly from nursing home workers expressing their regret for the family’s loss—were about someone named Ruth.

Ruth.
That was the name painted on Matthew’s boat.

Bernadette read the entries carefully.

I’m so sorry for your loss. I was Ruth’s night aide for ten years. Even though she couldn’t thank anyone herself, I know she appreciated everything we tried to do to make her time at Sunny Park enjoyable. Be comforted knowing she is now resting peacefully with the angels.

—Respectfully, Cecelia O.

Ruth was a beautiful soul who suffered silently for so many years. She has surely earned her place in heaven. I will include her and all of you in my prayers.

—From the Rev. Stephen Whitrockner, nursing home chaplain

I am truly sorry for your loss. Ruth must have been a lovely girl when she was a teenager. You could still see that beauty in her face, especially in her pretty eyes. I will keep her family in my thoughts as you struggle to get through what must be a difficult time. All my sympathies.

—Tamara, the first-floor medication nurse

“Depressing as hell,” Bernadette muttered. She was grateful to arrive at the final entry, a brief one that gave her pause:

Still waters.

—Love, C.A.

Who was C.A., and was that water reference a coincidence? She filed the question away.

The deceased had to be an elderly relative of the VonHader boys. An aunt or a grandmother. None of the entries indicated when Ruth had died.

A return to government databases didn’t come up with a death record for a Ruth VonHader, but that didn’t surprise her. There were hiccups in the system. How many dead people were still receiving Social Security checks? She couldn’t find anything else in those databases about this Ruth. Still, there had to be a paid obituary notice containing this matriarch’s story. She went to the
Pioneer Press
Web site and dove into its electronic archives.

There it was, a life summarized in two lines:

VonHader, Ruth A. Died at Sunny Park Nursing Home, St. Paul.

Private services and interment.

No age, survivors, day of death, or cause was listed. From the date of the archived obituary, however, she could surmise the month of death—and it made Bernadette’s heart race. The woman had died that April, the same month bodies started turning up in the Mississippi River.

To find out more about Ruth VonHader’s life, Bernadette would start with her place of death. She couldn’t find a Web site for Sunny Park Nursing Home, so she turned to the phone book. The facility was in St. Paul just off Lexington Parkway, a major road that crossed Summit Avenue—the street where the doctor lived.

She picked up the phone and told Garcia what she’d uncovered and said that she was going to visit the place where the woman had died.

“I guess you don’t need someone covering your back at a nursing home,” he said. “How
is
your back?”

“Good,” she said, lying.

“I’ve got some news on the news front,” he said. “Cops are holding a press conference in time for the six o’clock broadcasts. They’re going to issue a description. They aren’t releasing the name of Klein’s neighbor, but they’re going to say someone saw her with a fellow the night she was murdered.”

“Well, they couldn’t sit on it forever. We’ll see what this does.”

“Call me,” he said, and hung up.

IMPATIENTLY NAVIGATING
around other vehicles, Bernadette plowed her Ranger down Wabasha Street through the heart of downtown. It was the start of the lunchtime rush hour, and the streets were congested with cars and trucks and delivery vans. As she sat in traffic, she thought about the woman who’d been put to rest some six months earlier. What was it about her life and death that could have driven someone to commit murder?

Chapter 32

ON THE OUTSIDE, THERE WAS LITTLE SUNNY OR PARKLIKE ABOUT
Sunny Park Nursing Home. It was a flat-roofed, one-story brick building pocked with foggy windows. Overgrown juniper bushes and massive pine trees had taken over the front lawn, leaving little room for grass. Expecting the pattern of neglect to continue, Bernadette braced herself for the odor of urine and feces as she entered.

Once inside, she was surprised to smell nothing more ominous than roast beef and mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, she felt squeamish about touching anything in the place and pulled her gloves tighter over her fingers. She saw no one stationed at the reception desk. A guest book was open and a basket of visitor badges sat next to it, but she didn’t bother with either.

Past the desk, the hallway divided into a T. Glancing to her left, she saw a short corridor that led to a door labeled “Memory Care Unit.” That would be locked tight. She hung a right and went down a hall that spilled out into an airy, open room. The carpeted floor was dotted with plush couches and chairs, and the walls were covered with striped paper in calming shades of cream and taupe. At one end of the long space was a massive lighted aquarium teeming with tropical fish, and at the other end was a large-screen television set tuned to
The Andy Griffith Show
. The room had everything but seniors.

“May I help you?”

“Where did everyone go?” asked Bernadette, turning to address the woman at her elbow.

“To the dining room for lunch,” said the woman, a husky brunette stuffed into tight slacks and a tight sweater. Her plastic name tag identified her as Hannah.

Bernadette nodded. “Smells good.”

“Do you need help finding someone?”

“I’m trying to nail down a place for my mom,” said Bernadette, unbuttoning her trench coat. “I’ve been told good things about Sunny Park.”

“That’s nice to hear.” She waved a hand around the dayroom. “This is all new, courtesy of a generous donor.”

“I’d like to see the rest of the home,” Bernadette said.

Hannah took in Bernadette’s figure and apparently found a small woman in a suit no threat to the elderly. “Feel free to look around. I can’t give you a formal tour right now; mealtimes are very busy. Plus I work in the Memory Care Unit. Does your mom have Alzheimer’s?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not the one to give you a tour anyway.” She pointed down a hallway that skirted past the large dayroom. “Ask for Sheila at the nurses’ station. Go past the dining room, head down the hall, and go to the very end.”

“Sheila,” Bernadette repeated. “Thanks.”

Bernadette followed her nose down to the dining room. The linoleum floor was crowded with seniors, some of them piloting their own wheelchairs and walkers while others were getting wheeled or walked by aides. She wished she could question a few of the diners about Ruth VonHader, but she didn’t want to be overheard by a staff member. They might tell the VonHaders she’d been snooping.

Past the dining room was a wall covered by brass rectangles the size of license plates, the entire collection headed by a sign: “Our Generous Donors.” It was a plaque near the top containing a biblical quotation that drew her attention:

T
HE
V
ON
H
ADER
F
AMILY,

IN
L
OVING
M
EMORY OF
R
UTH
.

“W
HITHER THOU GOEST
, I
WILL GO
;

A
ND WHERE THOU LODGEST
, I
WILL LODGE
.”

As Bernadette stood staring at the wall, a phlegmatic cough echoed down the hallway. An elderly man in a wheelchair was trying to get by her. “Excuse me,” she said, moving to one side. “I’m right in the way, aren’t I?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and hacked again.

No one else was in the corridor. Bernadette trotted next to him. “Sir?”

In a hurry to get to his meal, he kept wheeling toward the dining hall while giving Bernadette a sideways glance. “What is it?” he grumbled.

She had to walk briskly to keep up. “Did you know Ruth VonHader?”

“Room 153,” he said.

“But did you know her?”

“Room 153,” he repeated. “She’s got a big mouth. Been here the longest of anybody. Knows everybody.”

Bernadette watched as he continued down the hall. She turned around and jogged toward the end of the corridor. Patient rooms lined both sides. All of the doors were open, and every room appeared empty. Finally she hit a room containing a patient. Eating alone, she was sitting in a wheelchair with a hospital tray in front of her. According to the plaques to the right of the door, the woman was either Inez or Gladys.

Bernadette checked the number posted over the names. Room 153. She tapped twice on the open door. “Hello.”

The woman looked up, fork in her hand, and motioned Bernadette to come inside. “Are you lost,
chère
?”

“A little.” Bernadette walked into the room.

The slight woman was dressed in a velour sweatsuit and sneakers. The skin on her face was olive-colored and leathery. The halo of white hair surrounding her head was as fine and fragile as a dead dandelion. She peered at Bernadette through thick bifocals, but her eyes looked clear and lively. “I had a dog like you. Blue left and brown right.”

“Catahoula leopard dog?”

“How’d you guess?”

“I spent some time in Louisiana. The breed is big down there.”

“My people are from the parish of East Baton Rouge,” the elderly woman said proudly. “I still got folks down there.”

“I thought I detected a little accent.
Parlez-vous Creole?
”

The elderly woman beamed.
“Oui, oui. Je parle Creole. Et vous?”

“Je connais un peu de Creole,”
replied Bernadette, holding up her thumb and index finger together to show a small amount. “Did I say that right?”

“Right enough for me,
chère
.” The woman pointed at her bed with the fork. “Sit.”

“Thank you.” Hoping she wasn’t about to sit down on dried urine, Bernadette gingerly plopped down on the edge of the old woman’s mattress.

With a blue-veined hand, the woman extended a dinner roll. “Eat.”

“I already ate,” said Bernadette. “But thanks anyway. Is it Gladys?”

“Inez. Gladys passed away last week. Died in her sleep.” She forked some mashed potatoes into her mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you gonna do?” Inez sawed her roast beef with a butter knife.

Bernadette glanced around the room. The half belonging to Inez was filled with family photos, and her bed was covered in a colorful quilt. Stuffed toys were lined up along the windowsill. “You like teddy bears.”

“My grandnephews keep giving them to me, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings.” She pointed the butter knife at the collection. “I don’t know what got them thinking Auntie Inez likes them mangy things.”

Perfect segue, thought Bernadette. “A friend of a friend had an auntie here.”

“I know everybody.” She popped a sliver of meat into her mouth and chewed. “Been here forever and a day.”