Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) (13 page)

Tears track down Desi’s face and she swipes irritably at them. “I need some time to think about things, but thank you for talking with me.” A short but almost hysterical laugh escapes her. “And for talking to Lucien. I know he hasn’t always been easy for you to deal with.”

I dismiss her statement with a little
pfft.
“I’ve always known Lucien’s crap is just an act. A darned good act at times, but an act nonetheless.”

Desi spends a minute or so getting her face together. “I don’t want to upset the kids or Mom. How do I look? Can you tell I’ve been crying?”

“Not at all.”

“You never were a very good liar.”

“Are the kids doing okay?”

“Ethan is taking everything in stride. He lives in a world all his own most of the time, anyway. Erika is having a hard time of it. At first, she was really angry at Lucien, but now she seems just sad.”

“Has he been in touch with them?”

“No, I wouldn’t let him.”

“Don’t do that to him, Desi. Don’t take his kids away, even if the two of you can’t work things out. You’ll destroy him. No matter how awful you think he’s been, he doesn’t deserve that.”

Desi sighs heavily. “I suppose you’re right.”

“How’s Mom been dealing with it all?”

Desi laughs. “She thinks you and I are the devil’s spawn and off our rockers, though she thinks you’re crazier than I am. She doesn’t understand how any woman could cast aside a lawyer or a doctor husband simply because of a few silly little mistakes. She even came up with an eleventh rule in her official Rules for Wives.”

“I shudder to think.”

“You’re going to love it. It’s a twist on an old saying, kind of like one of those fractured fairy tales we watched when we were kids. Except this one isn’t suitable for kids. It’s rated R.”

“Do tell.”

“A rich man in your pocket is worth two plays in someone’s bush.”

I stare at my sister, wondering if I heard her right.

She laughs again. “I swear. That’s what she told me. She was going on about how you were so quick to dump David because he screwed around on you, and she was upset that I was doing the same thing after one silly infraction on Lucien’s part. ‘You should always give them a second chance,’ she told me. ‘If they make it to three strikes, then they’re out.’ She got that real serious look on her face that she gets when she’s convinced she has some terminal disease. And out it came. ‘Always remember this,’ she said. ‘A rich man in your pocket is worth two plays in someone’s bush.’ ”

I start giggling and that gets Desi going, too. It builds, becoming contagious, each of us feeding off the other and off our shared, twisted history with our mother. Within seconds, we have tears rolling down our faces. In Desi’s case, I’m pretty sure the tears are a byproduct of her laughter, but for me they are a byproduct of the pain in my gut muscles that the laughing has triggered.

When we finally get ourselves under control, I walk over, wrap her in my arms, and give her a long tight hug that triggers even more pain. Clearly my ibuprofen has worn off. “I have to go,” I say when I release her. “But we’ll talk again soon.”

We exit the laundry room and before I fetch Emily to leave, I go to my purse and take out my checkbook. I write out a check to my sister in the amount of ten thousand dollars. Desi is at the sink doing dishes so I fold the check up and stick it in her pants pocket. “This is just a little something to tide you and the kids over for now.” She opens her mouth to object, but before she can, I add, “I want to help you guys. And I’m in a position where I can. I gave some money to Lucien, too. You’re my family, and I love you. So let me do this for you, okay?”

Desi hesitates a few seconds before answering. Finally she nods. “I won’t say no because I need the money right now. But I insist that it be a loan.”

I shake my head. “I’m considering it a gift, at least the money I’m giving to you. But if it makes you feel better to think of it as a loan, that’s fine.” I lean over and give her a quick kiss on the cheek and then head for the living room to get Emily.

A couple awkward good-byes later, Emily and I are back in my car and headed for Hurley’s house. I pull into his driveway and leave the car running while I walk with Emily to the front door. She looks at me, but makes no effort to enter the house.

“Something wrong?” I ask her.

“You have the key, don’t you?”

“Me? No. I don’t have a key. Are you saying you don’t have one either?”

She shakes her head. I mentally slap myself for not figuring out this problem sooner. On the off chance that Hurley or Kate might’ve left the place unlocked, I give the front doorknob a try, but it doesn’t budge.

“Okay,” I say, hands on my hips as I think. “Plan B. How would you feel about staying at my place for a few hours? I have cable TV and you can play with Hoover.”

“Can’t I just go with you to the nursing home?”

“I don’t think it would be appropriate, Emily. Besides, it’s not going to be that exciting. Yes, it’s technically a crime scene, but all we’re going to do is talk to a bunch of old people.”

“Fine,” Emily says with a shrug, but I can tell it isn’t.

We get back in the hearse and a few minutes later pull up in front of my cottage. “Who lives in the big house?” she asks as we get out of the car.

“My boss Izzy and his partner Dom.”

“Partner? As in gay?”

“Yes.”

“Izzy is gay?”

I nod.

“Huh.”

I’m not sure what her comment means so I ignore it. I unlock the door and Hoover greets us with his usual wagging tail. He gives me a cursory sniff and then shifts all his attention to the newcomer. Emily squats down and starts massaging Hoover behind both ears at once, sending him to doggie heaven.

“There are two cats here, too,” I tell her. “Tux and Rubbish.”

She smiles at this. “Rubbish?”

“I found him in a garbage Dumpster. I didn’t name Tux, but it’s fitting. You’ll understand as soon as you see him. Do you like cats?”

“I like all animals.”

“Well, the cats may not bother to introduce themselves. They tend to ignore people who like cats and make pests of themselves to those who don’t. There’s some pop in the fridge. Help yourself. I’m sorry I don’t have any food. I was on my way to go grocery shopping when I got called to the crime scene.”

“That’s okay. I’m not hungry anyway.”

“If you need anything, just go to the main house. I’ll let Dom and Izzy know you’re here.”

I take out my cell phone and call Dom, who informs me that Izzy isn’t home yet, but he is more than happy to keep an eye out and help Emily if she needs anything. After I hang up, I relay this information to Emily and ask her if she has a cell phone.

“All we had is a throwaway phone, and my mom has it with her.”

The cottage doesn’t have a landline so I dig out my own throwaway phone, the one I bought a couple months ago when I quit my job with Izzy and had to give that cell phone back. It’s a basic flip phone and when I open it I see that the battery is almost dead so I plug it in to its charger. I look up Hurley’s and Dom’s numbers in my work phone and write them down for her. I also write down my work cell number after Emily helps me figure out what it is.

“The phone should charge up pretty fast,” I tell her. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

“Okay.”

She looks a little frightened and I feel bad leaving her there, but I don’t see any other choice. I get back into the hearse and head for the Twilight Home, a trip that takes four minutes—one of the perks of living in a small town. As I park and get out of my car, I remember my diary, which I left sitting on the kitchen table. It’s there . . . with a teenager who’s all alone in my house.

Crap
.

A
changing of the guard has occurred at the front desk of the Twilight Home. No doubt Connie has gone home and spread the news about her boss’s demise and how his fortune cookie predicted it with its lack of a fortune. In her place is a nursing assistant by the name of Penny, an overweight, red-faced young woman who looks like she just got lambasted. Standing at her side with her jacket on is Dorothy Granger, who I’m willing to bet was the lambaster.

“Hey, Dorothy,” I say as I approach. “How are things going?”

“How do you think they’re going?” she asks with ill-disguised reproach.

Penny slides the sign-in clipboard toward me and sets a pen down on top of it.

I look at it and then at her. “I’m not here to visit. I’m here in an official capacity.”

“You have to sign in either way,” Dorothy says. “It’s not a visitor roster. It’s a way of keeping track of who comes in and out of this building. It’s a safety measure and a licensure requirement.”

“I see,” I say, sliding the clipboard toward me and looking at the empty pages beneath the top one. “Do you keep the old copies of these on file somewhere?”

“We do. The cops already have the sheets in question.”

“I see. Have they talked to you yet?”

“No, and they aren’t going to any time soon. Right now, I’m the administrator in charge and as such I have a responsibility to the facility so I won’t be speaking to any authorities without our lawyers in attendance.” There is no malice in her voice when she says this; it’s merely a recitation of duty.

“Are the lawyers here?”

“Not yet. They’re based in Milwaukee. They’re sending a team to deal with this mess, and they should be here any minute.” Dorothy sounds sad.

“I’m sorry this happened, Dorothy. I know you run a tight and professional ship so this must be very difficult for you.”

“The others are set up in the dayroom talking to patients. I believe you know the way.”

I realize I’m being dismissed and I head for the dayroom, pondering the enigma that is Dorothy. I wonder again how old she is and how close she is to retirement. She’s had the same gray-streaked hair, the same lived-in face, and the same level of energy ever since I’ve known her. To be honest, I would’ve guessed she was close to retirement age back when I first met her, just based on her personality and her old-school way of doing things. More than a decade later, she doesn’t look or act much different. Based on her personality, I wouldn’t be surprised if she never retired. Dorothy is the kind of woman who will work right up until the day she drops dead, and I’m guessing the odds of that happening while she’s on the job are even money.

Dr. Maggie pops into my head again and after I tell her it’s just a cliché for cripes sake, I shove her back out.

As I approach the intersection and the nurse’s station, I see three employees huddled behind the desk. They are speaking in low, almost whispery voices—not loud enough for me to hear what they’re saying—but they stop speaking altogether as soon as they see me.

A quick scan of their name tags tells me they are all nursing assistants. I smile at them, turn the corner, and swear I can feel their eyes boring into my back as I make my way down the hallway to the dayroom. Some of the patient rooms I pass are empty, but others have collections of patients in them who are also huddled and speaking in low, whispery voices. One of the rooms has two elderly men standing in the doorway. Inside, Larry and the off-duty police officers who are helping him are searching the room. The elderly men glare at me as I walk by and I assume they have determined me guilty merely by association.

When I reach the dayroom, I see a group of a dozen or so patients at one end, and Bob Richmond is seated at a table at the other end talking to an elderly gent who is bald, arthritic, and so stooped over, the waist of his pants are nearly at his nipple line. If it wasn’t for a pair of snappy electric blue suspenders I suspect those pants would be in a pool at his feet. Apparently, Richmond is done with Mr. Suspenders because the gentleman is shuffling his way across the room. I don’t see Hurley anywhere so I head over to Richmond.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “This is one scary place,” he says in a low voice. “Some of these people are so old I suspect the candles on their birthday cakes might be the cause of global warming. And some of them are so decrepit. It’s sad.”

“Getting old ain’t pretty,” I agree. “But it beats the alternative.”

“I don’t know,” Richmond says, shaking his head woefully. “It seems like getting old is just one loss after another. You lose your teeth, your sight, your hearing, your muscle, your sphincter control, and if you’re really unlucky, your mind. Or maybe they’re the lucky ones because they don’t know what’s happening to them. I don’t know.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up like a Mohawk.

“So many of these people are just struggling to hang on to whatever dignity they have left. One guy I talked to has had three heart surgeries, both hips and one knee replaced, he wears hearing aids, couldn’t read my name tag, and wasn’t sure what day it was or where he was. He told me he takes thirty-some medications and that his diabetes makes him prone to blackouts. Since he can’t remember where his room is, who knows if that’s true? You know what the really scary part is? He still has a driver’s license that he uses on occasion! And you know what? I get it. That would be me, hanging on to whatever bit of independence I had left. I should probably report the guy to the DMV, but I don’t think I have the heart to do it.”

“It’s a crapshoot,” I tell him. “Not everyone’s golden years are the same. You’re seeing the bad luck end of the spectrum in here. Some people age well and stay relatively healthy. Part of it is genetics, part of it is luck, and part of it is how well you take care of yourself. I have to say, you seem to be well on that road these days. You really look great, Bob.”

“Thanks. I’m trying. The gym has helped. Do you want to meet me there in the morning early? I usually go around six and work out for forty-five minutes, sometimes an hour. That gives me time enough to shower and hit the station by eight when I’m working.”

I consider this for a nanosecond and then shake my head. “I’m not a morning person. I sicced my cats on the last bird that had the nerve to start tweeting outside my bedroom window at dawn. There was nothing left but feathers. Lord knows what I’d do to Gunther at that hour.”

Richmond smiles tentatively and I can tell he is unsure how serious I am. “Okay,” he says after a few seconds. “How about tomorrow evening then? I can be flexible.”

My kneejerk reaction is to say no, even as the thought of the word
knee jerk
makes my leg muscles flinch. But Richmond really does look good compared to what he was before he got shot and yesterday he showed me up at the gym. I can also see muscle definition in his arms that wasn’t there before, and overall he just looks better. Plus I need to do something to get my mind off the gambling.

“Okay. What time?”

“Why don’t we shoot for six and see how the day goes? It’s hard to know how busy we’ll be with this investigation tomorrow, but I suspect it could be a long day.”

“Okay. If I don’t see you tomorrow, let me know if the time changes and I’ll do the same if I can’t get away from whatever I’m doing. Speaking of which, where’s Hurley?”

“He’s over in the administration wing looking through the offices. The board members told the staff they weren’t to talk to any of us until the lawyers get here and if they did, they’d risk losing their jobs. For now we’re limited to the search detail, evidence collection, and patient interviews. We did rock-paper-scissors to see who would do what.”

I ponder this for a moment. “Who won?”

“I did,” Richmond says. He pushes a computer tablet type thing toward me. “I wanted to play with the new toy. We just got this fingerprint scanner. It does a full ten card without the messy ink and uploads it to the AFIS database automatically. I figured it was worth the trade-off of having to talk to all these old folks. Though I didn’t count on the fact that I’d have to repeat everything for half the people I talked to because they’re so hard of hearing, or because they can’t remember the question two seconds after I ask it. Lesson learned.”

“Have any of the patients refused to be interviewed or printed?”

“Not yet. Some of them have acted a little outraged, but I think it’s an act. To be honest, I think they’re enjoying it. It’s a little excitement in their otherwise dull worlds.”

“How many have you done?”

Richmond flips through his notebook and takes out a piece of paper with a list of names on it, some of which are crossed off, and some of which have a blue star next to them. He counts the ones that are crossed off. “Twenty-two so far.”

“Why do some of the names have stars next to them?”

“They’re patients who are more or less bedbound, so they’re basically eliminated from suspicion. That’s a third of the patients, so when you take that into account, I’m more than halfway done.”

“Anyone stand out?”

“Yes and no. Everyone I’ve talked to so far has heard the rumor about Chase bumping off his more costly patients and they haven’t hesitated to say so. That’s one thing I’ve found rather refreshing so far. These folks aren’t afraid to be honest and tell it like it is, though no one has confessed to killing the guy yet.” Richmond pauses and juts his chin toward the exit to the outside garden area. “There is a group of folks who seem to be avoiding me, however. They’ve been hanging outside in that garden area the entire time. At first, I thought they were out there because they’re smokers, but they haven’t come inside at all, which surprises me. Granted it was a sunny, warm day, but now the sun has set and it’s chilly out there.”

I remember the smoking group I encountered earlier when Irene first brought me here and suspect I know why they are avoiding the cops. “Let me talk to them.”

Richmond glances at his watch. “Have at it. Let me know if you catch the killer.” With that, he calls the next name on his list and a yellow-haired old lady with a walker gets up from the table across the room and starts toward us.

I get up from my chair and head outside. Over by a raised planter area sprouting daffodils and crocuses is the small group of folks Richmond was referring to: three men and two women. They are huddled together, whether out of secrecy, cold, or both I can’t tell, and talking in low voices.

I know all five of them through different means. The one I know the best is Betty Young, a retired hairdresser who used to own a local salon. Betty hasn’t lost her desire to always be seen with perfect hair, nails, and makeup, but she has lost her eyesight to a large degree. Either that or she thinks a beehive hairdo shellacked into chaotic submission that a tornado couldn’t move is the fashion bomb. As I close in on the group, I see that Betty’s makeup is also looking a bit dicey. Aside from the wrinkles filled with face powder, and a mix of teal green and sky blue eye shadow that’s straight out of the seventies, her ruby red lipstick is applied far beyond the edges of her mouth and her eyeliner is crooked and smeared. The end result is rather garish and sad. I wonder if it’s because she’s been wearing it all day, or if it looked like that when she first put it on.

I say hi to Betty and then acknowledge the others in the group. There’s Tom Watson, a retired CPA and part-time inventor who never invented anything anyone wanted to buy or use, though he did manage to lose his wife to the patent attorney who also took most of Tom’s money. I also recognize Barry “Bubba” Hildreth, who used to run the Streets Department in town until someone discovered he was hiding the fact that he was legally blind. Unfortunately, that discovery came after Bubba buried three citizens in a snowbank and took out the corner section of a downtown pharmacy while driving the city snowplow. Judging from the white cane he is now carrying and the fact that he is living at Twilight Home, I gather he has finally accepted his handicap.

The third gentleman in the group is Randolph Pettigrew, who at one time was a highly successful insurance salesman and the main reason behind most of the divorces in Sorenson. Not only was he a very handsome man, something that is still evident even at his current advanced age, but he apparently felt the need to live up to his nickname, Randy. Personally, I’m amazed that he’s managed to make it to eighty-whatever because rumor has it he was shot once, stabbed twice, and beaten at least a half dozen times by jealous, cuckolded husbands. Several times, he required blood transfusions and as a result developed chronic hepatitis. That’s how I got to know him. His health problems led to several trips to the ER back when I worked there.

The other woman in the group is Aileen Cavanaugh, who used to own and run the local florist shop. It’s now run by her son and daughter-in-law who do an adequate job but lack Aileen’s talent. Aileen has a natural ability to pull together unusual combinations of flowers, greenery, and colors, resulting in some stunningly beautiful arrangements that built her a reputation. It will be interesting to see if the store survives now that she is no longer associated with it. Her talent built and maintained the business for more than three decades. I figure they’ll be safe if no one else comes to town and opens shop, but if any competition arises, it’s anyone’s guess what will happen.

I don’t know if there are any romantic liaisons going on in this group but I figure Randolph is safe. Betty and Aileen are widows so there are no husbands to worry about. Tom is about half Randolph’s size and arthritic enough that Randolph could easily outrun him, even though Randolph’s fastest pace these days is a slow shuffle. And Bubba can’t see well enough to shoot, stab, or beat Randolph even if he wanted to.

“What a terrible thing,” Betty says to me. “Do the cops know who did it?”