Dying Wishes (18 page)

~

Although
we were more than a week from the end of the month, I could already feel the
closing craziness building. The phones rang relentlessly, and Emma flew down
the stairs to the copy machine and back up the stairs to her office like a
woman possessed. Jimmy and Isabel, the two lawyers for whom she worked, seemed
always to be behind the doors of the upstairs conference room or en route to an
offsite closing.

“Quick
lunch tomorrow?” she threw over her shoulder as we passed in the lobby.

“Can’t
tomorrow, Vista View,” I tossed back over mine, intent on reaching the ringing
phone in the Mack office.

“See
you Sunday, maybe,” she yelled, already at the top of the stairs, and that was
the extent of our non-business-related conversation for the week.

Margo
was taking advantage of the afternoon’s clear skies to show an out-of-town
buyer several listings, so
Strutter
and I handled the
nervous first-time buyers and jumpy refinancers, fixated on every
eighth-of-a-point rate fluctuation, as best we could.

At
five-thirty by mutual consent, we switched the phones over to the answering
service and locked the newly power-washed front doors behind us.
Strutter
hurried to her car, running late to collect Olivia
from the sitter. I thought about Emma, still toiling over endless closing
packages at her desk, and wondered yet again how a baby could possibly fit into
her hectic schedule.

Since
Armando had been traveling for half the week, and we had barely exchanged two
words since his return on Wednesday evening, we planned to meet for dinner at
Costa del Sol. Several of our other favorite restaurants had fallen victim to
the down economy of the past few years, as well as Hartford’s changing
demographics. Our favorite dinner-and-dancing place had turned hip hop and
tacky under new
management,
and our Italian restaurant
of choice had been replaced by a raucous sports bar with a never-ending happy
hour. Apparently, young working people were as addicted to their evening
cocktails and dinners out as they were to their four-dollar morning lattes.

“I
know they work hard and feel entitled to a little fun,” Margo put it
succinctly, “but every night? Lord love ‘
em
, no
wonder they’re always broke.”

It
was that false sense of prosperity that had put many young couples under water
on their mortgages, having taken on more debt at the urging of irresponsible
lenders than they could possibly sustain, especially when one or both partners
subsequently lost a high-paying job.

After
my perplexing week immersed in the issues of aging and dying, it was a treat to
sit across the table from my handsome husband and savor both our time together
and the exquisite paella we had ordered. I gave him an edited version of the
week’s events so far, carefully omitting mention of the painted message, and he
was amused by my exchange with Sister Marguerite.

“She
sounds much more tolerant of diverse points of view than were the
monjas
of my
youth but just as firm in her convictions,” he chuckled. “I cannot imagine
Sor
Emelinda
permitting such a conversation, let alone participating in it.

I
assumed he was referring to one of the teachers in the Colombian school he had
attended as a child. “Were you a good little boy, or did she rap your knuckles
with her ruler?” I teased.

He
looked confused.
“Oh, no.
Sor
Eme
was not one of my boyhood teachers.
She was the, how do you call it, manager of the domestic services provided to
the seminarians such as the laundry and cooking and so on.” I remembered that
Armando had once planned to enter the priesthood. He had studied for two years
before his attraction to the young women of his acquaintance persuaded him that
a lifetime of celibacy wasn’t going to work out for him. Nobody was happier
about that decision than I was.

He
sipped his wine and smiled, remembering. “If you were foolish enough to get on
the wrong side of
Sor
Eme
, she
could make your life no longer worth living, believe me.”

I
laughed. “Did that happen often?”

“It
seems to me that I spent a good deal more time than the other students mopping
floors and peeling potatoes. So Sister Marguerite believes it may be possible
to save your soul? She must indeed have tenacity of spirit.”

“Let’s
just say she still hopes for a miracle,” I said.

We
ate in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the classical guitar music
wafting in from the bar and the quiet conversation of other diners.

“What
did Margo learn about the young Colombian sex therapist?” he asked finally,
pushing his empty plate aside.

“Massage
therapist,” I corrected him. “Ginny thinks the sex is a sideline for Tommy, but
Margo swears he’s a perfect gentleman, or at least he was with her.” I
recounted what she had told me about their encounter. “When she found out that
Tommy had been orphaned as a teenager, she went all mother tiger, defending him
against Ginny’s accusations.”

“I
imagine that your Margo would be formidable in such circumstances. She is
definitely someone I would want on my side in an argument,” he agreed. He
sipped his wine thoughtfully. “
Cara
,
does it not seem to you that you and your friends are spending a great deal of
time defending many people from
Senora
Preston’s accusations? She appears to be a very negative individual, imagining
goblins everywhere. Is it not possible that her suspicions about the Butler
woman’s death are as unfounded as is her belief that
Tomás
is a gigolo?”

He
had no idea how much I longed to dismiss Ginny’s fears as easily as he seemed
prepared to do, but too many people were going to great lengths to distract and
divert me. Then there was the matter of the painted warning on the Law Barn.

I
shook my head stubbornly, and he sighed. “Then at least let us enjoy another
glass of this excellent Pinot noir.”

I
was happy to agree.

Fourteen

On
Friday morning Bert didn’t appear for coffee. I was a little worried about him
until he showed up at the sales desk a few minutes before noon, his arms laden
with shopping bags bearing the logo of a local party shop.

“Halloween
Social Committee meeting this afternoon,” he explained, sinking gratefully into
a visitor’s chair. He piled the bags on the floor beside him.

“Nice!”
I congratulated him as he spread out a particularly gruesome selection of masks
on my desk. I fingered a Freddy Krueger model fondly. “This takes me back to a
Halloween party we threw for Emma and her friends when she was fifteen. We
propped Freddy here up on a broom handle right outside the guest bathroom
window and shined a flashlight on him. You didn’t notice anything until you
washed your hands. Then the mirror over the sink reflected Fred in all his
glory. Judging from the shrieks we heard all evening, those kids must have had
nightmares for weeks,” I giggled unrepentantly, and Bert joined in.

“Revenge
of the mother of teenagers,” he mugged in a pretty good imitation of Boris
Karloff.

“You’ve
got it exactly. So when is this big do and where?”

“Tomorrow
night right here in the community dining room. We close it off after lunch and
then decorate like crazy all afternoon. This,” he waved at the shopping bags,
“is just a little new stuff. We have crates of ghoulish décor stored in the
basement. By six o’clock tomorrow, you won’t recognize the place.” His face lit
up as an idea occurred to him. “You should stop by,” he urged. “It’s been so
grim around
here,
it would do you good to see that we
really can have a lot of fun. A few people wear costumes, but most people just
wear masks. We have a jukebox brought in, too. Things really get rolling around
seven o’clock. I’ll show you my “Monster Mash” moves,” he grinned.

It
was good to see him looking forward to something. “Well, the Mashed Potato was
before my time, of course. I don’t know if I could keep up,” I teased him, “but
I’d like to see you strutting your stuff.”

He
shrugged with good humor. “If you’ve got it, why not flaunt it, right?” He
collected his shopping bags and hurried into the dining room, eager to show off
his purchases.

Reluctantly,
I went to collect Ginny in her office and have lunch in the dining room, as
well. I didn’t feel we had parted on the best of terms on Wednesday, and I
frankly wasn’t looking forward to yet another rehash of the murky circumstances
surrounding Margaret Butler’s death and Ginny’s concerns.

To
my surprise and relief, Ginny greeted me civilly and even managed a smile.
“Ready for lunch?
I’m famished. There must be something
special on the menu, judging from the wonderful aromas coming out of the
kitchen when I stopped by to get coffee this morning. I can hardly wait to see
what it is.” She grabbed her purse and bustled around her desk to join me.

I
looked at her more closely. Despite her determinedly upbeat tone, her face was
drawn and pale. She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days, and her magpie-like
chatter wasn’t fooling me.

“Everything
okay, Gin?” I asked quietly as we started toward the dining room.

“What
do you mean? Oh, yes, everything is just fine. I had a long talk with
Rog
last night, and he agrees with you that there’s nothing
to be gained by digging around in this Margaret Butler situation any longer. No
good can possibly come of it,” she answered brightly. I wasn’t convinced.

“You
agreed with that?” I repeated.

“Yes,
and candidly it’s a huge relief to let it go. Thank you so much for humoring me
all this time, but that’s the end of it. Now, Sandy,” she said to the
attractive blonde who stood at her usual post by the dining room entrance,
“what is it that smells so good today?”

Sandy
greeted Ginny perfunctorily but ignored me entirely. “It’s the sage,” she told
her. “We have stuffed chicken breasts and the chef’s special fresh green bean
salad with mustard sauce. He’s serving that hot today.”

“Sounds
great,” Ginny responded eagerly and headed directly for the serving counter.
“We can grab a table after we get our food.”

I
smiled at Sandy before trailing after Ginny, but she appeared to be absorbed in
tidying the condiment station behind her. Could I possibly have offended her in
some way? By the time we got through the line with our trays, the tables in the
staff section were pretty well filled. Rather than snag one of the few still
available, Ginny approached two young women in maids’ uniforms who were already
seated at a table for four.

“May
we join you?” she chirped, startling me and them, judging from their
expressions. They looked me over nervously, but Ginny was the boss, so there
could be only one response.

“Of
course, Mrs. Preston,” and “Please do,” said the girls, one dark haired and one
blonde, whose nametags read
Rosalita
and Suzanne, respectively.

Ginny
promptly pulled out a chair and motioned me to the remaining one. “Wonderful.
This way there will still be a table or two left for the late lunch-
ers
. This is Kate Lawrence, by the way, one of the Vista View
sales representatives,” she said by way of introduction, then quickly asked the
two maids how things were going with them.

Clearly,
I had been put in my place. I was no longer Ginny’s friend and confidante. I
was merely a Vista View contract employee from this point forward.
 
I wondered if her conversation with her
husband had triggered this change in attitude or if something else had happened
since we had talked on Wednesday morning. Obviously, there would be no
opportunity to pose that question during this meeting. Ginny fired a steady
stream of work-related questions at the two young women, which had the dual
effect of keeping the conversation going while excluding me. From time to time,
Rosalita
or Suzanne looked at me apologetically, but
I just smiled and remained silent. Fortunately, the excellent meal allowed me
to keep my mouth busy.

After
twenty minutes of nonstop interrogation, Suzanne and
Rosalita
excused themselves and made a beeline for the door. I knew how they felt. Bert
and his ladies chattered happily at a large table near the windows. I wished I
were seated there instead of at this table, where silence had descended. I
looked around idly while Ginny toyed with her lunch. A young man sporting body
art and a buzz cut bussed tables without enthusiasm.

“Where’s
Tommy Garcia?” I couldn’t help asking.

Ginny’s
lips formed a thin smile which didn’t reach her eyes. “He quit yesterday.”

“But why?”
I gasped, afraid
I might already know the answer.

“I
asked him to come to my office before he left for the day. I warned him that
inappropriate behavior with the female residents would not be tolerated, and he
quit just like that, walked out without even giving notice. He’ll see where
that gets him when he needs a recommendation,” she said, not bothering to
conceal her malicious satisfaction.