Grace Sees Red (10 page)

“Frances is your assistant, isn't she? The older woman from Marshfield who helped you solve all the recent murders out there?”

“She'd probably prefer it if you gave the two of us equal credit, but yes, that's her. She's not guilty. We all know that.”

He made an indecipherable noise, and I could tell that he was taking notes. “Do you know what else, aside from the insulin, that they intend to test for?” he asked. “I mean, beyond what's standard.”

“I have no idea. I don't even know what is standard. No one's talking to me. Not yet, at least.”

I intended to correct that soon.

“But you plan to correct that soon, I'll bet,” he said.

I half laughed. “You read my mind.”

“I'd appreciate it if you'd keep me updated,” he said. “Do you have a pen?”

I hurried back into the kitchen, where I grabbed one, along with a pad of paper. “I do now.”

He had me write down three phone numbers. “The first one is my cell. I shut it off while I'm with patients, but I check messages and texts regularly. The second is my extension here at the morgue, and I always do my best to pick up. Those patients don't complain about interruptions. The last one is my main office. If you ever need to reach me immediately, or there's an emergency, call that number. Either my receptionist or my answering service will know how to get in touch.”

“I don't anticipate any emergencies,” I said.

“Neither do I, but it pays to plan ahead.”

“I appreciate it,” I said. “Here's my cell.”

“Got it,” he said as he wrote it down. “As I'm sure Detective Rodriguez told you, I'm here to help.”

“It's about time you got here,” Frances said when I walked into her office the next morning. She stood in front of her desk, arms folded, one sensibly shod foot tapping impatience.

“About time?” I asked. I was early. And she was still wearing her coat. “What's going on?”

“Lily said they need me back in Rosette for another statement. She's meeting me at their police department. I figured you'd want to come along.”

“Of course I would, but I have three meetings scheduled for today.” One of them was with Bennett's financial planner, a notoriously picky man who'd confirmed our appointment no fewer than three times last week. “Give me a few minutes to reschedule—”

“Already done,” she said. “I forwarded all the changes to you via e-mail and updated your calendar. And I told the Mister that we'd be out for the morning. Maybe longer. He said he'd stay back to meet with his adviser, but that we should keep him informed.” She nodded as though that settled everything. “You ready?”

Did I have any choice? “Let's go.”

“Good. You can drive.”

Frances kept quiet until we'd exited Marshfield's front gate. As I took a right onto the main road, she twisted in her seat to stare behind us.

“Forget something?” I asked.

Righting herself, she shook her head. “I don't usually come through the front gate in the morning. I use the employee entrance.”

“So do I. But this way's faster to the expressway.”

“I forget how pretty the entrance is.”

Startled by such an uncharacteristic observation, I took my eyes off the road long enough to make sure it was Frances, and not an impostor, sitting in my passenger seat.

“Our new landscape architect has really upped her game,” I said. “I can't wait to see her plans come into full bloom this season. We'll have to come out this way more often when the weather starts warming up.”

Frances gave an impatient sniff. “Maybe
you'll
come out this way to enjoy the pretty flowers. I'll probably be locked up in some windowless jail cell with a roommate who never bathes.”

“We won't let that happen.”

“How many times have Rodriguez and Flynn arrested the wrong person?”

I didn't want to answer that.

“Exactly,” she said as though reading my mind. “And they're decent human beings, the two of them.” Leaning slightly toward me, she lowered her voice. “Don't ever tell them I said such a thing. Especially Flynn.”

“Your secret's safe with me.” As we followed the road that would take us to Rosette, I scrunched my nose. I knew this next part would be tough. “Speaking of secrets,” I said, “it seems that your story has gotten out. Bruce and Scott came home knowing most of it, even though I never said a word.”

Frances flinched, but only slightly. “Guess I'm not surprised.”

“I'm sorry, Frances.”

She slid me one of her trademark glares, but whatever message she'd intended to convey fell flat.

We traveled quietly for a while. Unlike Sunday's trek to Indwell, today's weather was mild and sunny, with the promise of a warm-up.

“Everything will work out,” I said. “It may take a while, but I have faith in the system.”

“I'm not worried.”

I didn't believe her for a second. “Good.”

“Knowing these quick-to-judge detectives believe I could have done it—that's what's got me steamed. They look at me like I'm their number-one target.”

If Frances were anyone else, I may have reached over to pat her arm. But I kept both hands on the steering wheel and said, “Then we need to give them other options to consider.”

She gave a brisk nod. “That's where you come in.”

I knew she expected me to solve the mystery of Gus's death by lunchtime, but like Dorothy and Kansas, we weren't in Marshfield anymore. We wouldn't even be in Emberstowne. Although we had a network of professionals to call on for help, they had no power, no jurisdiction. Frances and I were on our own.

“You know I'll do whatever I can, but my influence in Rosette will be limited. And I highly doubt that the police at the station will allow me to question them while you're being interviewed.”

“The cops in Rosette don't know who they're bargaining with.” Adjusting herself to face me, she said, “I've been giving this some thought. Instead of coming with me to the station—I can always tell you later about what happened there—why don't you drop me off and head back over to Indwell and see what you can dig up?”

“Happy to do that.” I'd been considering a similar idea myself. “Mind you, I don't know how much they'll let me wander around, especially if I start asking questions about Gus.”

“Tell them you're visiting Percy. He took a shine to you—he always likes to chat up the pretty ones—and he'll introduce you around. As long as you're there as his guest, they can't
throw you out.” She twisted her mouth to one side. “Unless you get belligerent.” With a pointed glare, she added, “Don't get belligerent.”

“I'll do my best.” Taking a hand off the wheel long enough to point at her, I said, “And when you're in there with the detectives, I suggest you heed that advice as well.”

Scooching to face forward again, she frowned out the windshield. “No need to get sassy.”

“We still have a bit of a ride ahead of us,” I said. “Tell me about the people I'll meet there. I want to know who's who.”

She provided a wealth of information about the good folks at Indwell and by the time we exited the expressway, I had no doubt I'd be able to recognize each and every one of them on sight.

*   *   *

“Go.” After alighting from the car, Frances leaned back inside the open passenger window and made shooing motions with her hands. “Go already. You're wasting time.”

“Do you see Lily's car anywhere?” I shut off the engine and got out to look around. “I don't want to leave you here until I know she's arrived.”

“I'll be fine,” Frances said over the top of the car. “You think I can't handle these dim-witted detectives on my own?”

Not with an attitude like that, you can't.

“I'll feel better if we wait until Lily gets here.”

Frances shielded her eyes against the sun as she surveyed the sea of dark Ford sedans. Nothing here remotely resembled the high-powered attorney's ride.

“Let's go in together,” I said. “I'll wait with you until she shows up. Then I'll take off.”

“Don't baby me. I'm twice your age. I know how to handle myself.”

“You're not twice my age and this is hardly babying you.” Despite my best efforts, my voice rose. “Think about it: I didn't abandon my sister until I knew she had proper representation for her trial. And you know how fond I am of her.”

Frances grudgingly acknowledged my point.

I didn't know if the reason she so fervently wanted me gone was because of her eagerness for me to get started on my end of the investigation, or because she was frightened about her interview and didn't want me to see.

“There she is.” Frances pointed a stubby finger at a shiny Lexus pulling into the small lot. With a glance at her watch, she added, “Right on time.”

After parking in the farthest open spot, Lily Holland sprang from the driver's seat, retrieved a maroon briefcase from the back, and waved to us as she made her brisk way over. Her shiny auburn bob bounced in the sunshine. We exchanged quick greetings.

“I want to go over a few guidelines with you before we go in,” Lily said to Frances. “Our goal is to answer all their questions accurately but to get you out of there as quickly as possible and without any discussion of arrest.”

Frances folded her arms. “If someone did kill Gus, these idiots are wasting valuable time questioning me.”

Lily nodded. “That's exactly the sort of sentiment I'd prefer you didn't voice once we're inside.”

Before she could say another word, Frances flicked her fingers in my direction. “Go on, now. My lawyer's here. I'm safe.”

I wished I could believe that. Although I knew Lily would do everything she could to expedite things, I worried that my assistant's sharp tongue might make the task more difficult.

“Call me when you want me to come by and pick you up,” I said.

“Don't worry about coming all the way back out here. I'll be happy to drop Frances off when we're finished,” Lily said.

When Frances told her that I wouldn't be coming all the way back from Emberstowne, that I planned to visit Percy at Indwell, Lily's eyes narrowed. “You're visiting Frances's ex-husband?”

“That's right,” I said.

“A man you met for the first time on Sunday?”

Frances jumped in before I could respond. “Grace plans
to have a look around and talk to a few people. No harm in that.”

Lily shot me a piercing glare. “Do not insert yourself into the police investigation. Do not make my job harder than it is.”

“I won't,” I said as I got back into my car.

Frances came around to my open window. “Don't listen to her,” she whispered. “Sniff around. Dig deep. Find out as much as you can.”

Driving to Indwell Estates, I slowed once again at the vantage point overlooking the property. The facility's gardens were even more breathtaking than they'd appeared during Sunday's storms. Lush green lawns and sparkling fountains gave the impression of a paradise tucked away, hidden where no one—except wealthy patients, perhaps—might find it. People roamed the grounds this morning, mostly in small groups. Elderly folks, accompanied by aides or family members, either strolled or were pushed in wheelchairs, enjoying the morning's gentle sunshine.

I found a spot nearer the front door than last time and made my way in.

The busy lobby took me by surprise. In stark contrast to Sunday's quiet desolation, there were people present today. Lots of them—laughing, conversing, and sipping drinks from paper cups. A few residents sat by the fireplace, others clustered near the windows. Life had gone back to normal around here. And normal, apparently, included a lively lobby atmosphere; cool, mentholated air; and soft conversations.

Cathy, the ever-so-helpful chatty aide, sat alone at the front
desk working at a computer. According to Frances, Cathy had once been a full-time registered nurse at a big university hospital. Widowed young, she subsequently married a man who owned a slew of convenience stores. They settled in Rosette, where she took her current, less stressful job as an aide. The couple had no kids, but Cathy doted on her three dachshunds.

As though feeling the weight of my scrutiny, Cathy glanced up and said, “Good morning.” Her expression was guileless, bland. Not even a flicker of recognition.

There was a sign-in sheet on the desk in front of me and a basket of
Visitor
tags to its right. I leaned down, intending to print my name in the proper column of the sheet when Cathy, sensing my hesitation, asked, “First time visiting?”

“I was here Sunday,” I said. “During all the commotion?”

She nodded, still oblivious.

“You and Debbie, the nurse, helped us. We were here with Frances Sliwa?”

Like curtains rising from a stage, bewilderment lifted from her eyes. “Oh,” she said, drawing the exclamation out. “Yes. I remember. That was really something, wasn't it? Did the police arrest Frances yet? I heard they were going to, maybe even today.”

Her careless inquiry made my stomach pinch. “No,” I said. “I'm sure they won't. They only want to talk with her. She's clearly an important witness, but there's no way she would have harmed Gus.”

“Mm-mm,” she said with a lilt that suggested she doubted me. “So then why are you here?”

“I'm visiting Percy. Her ex-husband.”

“Really? I thought you didn't even know about him before Sunday.”

With a high-wattage smile, I said, “I make friends easily.”

She took a moment to connect the dots. “Wait a second. I'll bet because Frances can't be here, she wants you to deliver a message. Am I close?”

I forced a smile. “Something like that. She wants to know
that he's all right. After all that excitement, she's nervous about him.”

“Tell me about it. Everybody here has been on edge.”

Sensing her warming up, I decided to push my luck a little. “I can imagine,” I said. “That nurse, the one who started all this craziness, what was his name again?” I knew it, of course, but simple inquiries were often effective segues.

“Santiago,” she said quietly, leaning across the desk to be heard. “And let me tell you, he's in love with all the attention. He keeps telling everyone how observant he was to have noticed the cap on the floor.”

So the cap on the floor was now common knowledge.
“I probably wouldn't have.”

She grinned. “Me neither. But then again, with patients as nasty as Gus, I try to spend as little time in the room with them as possible.”

“I wouldn't blame you. I never met Gus, but it sounds like he was a real curmudgeon.”

Cathy held a hand next to her mouth and stage-whispered, “So is Santiago. Except he's about forty years younger.”

“Good to know,” I said. “He's not working today, is he? I'd rather avoid him if I can.”

Or, seek him out.
But no need to share that with Cathy right now.

“Not sure,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “He usually works mornings, but I haven't seen him yet. Don't worry. If he's here, he'll find you.”

“Why?”

“Fresh blood,” she said with a grin. “Another person to tell the ‘I was the person who discovered a murder' story to.”

“We don't know for sure that Gus was murdered,” I reminded her. “I'm betting they determine that he died of natural causes.”

Cathy shrugged as though it made no difference at all. As though it didn't matter that someone's—Frances's—good name and freedom hung in the balance. Cheerfully, she said, “Don't let Santiago hear you say that. He prefers playing the hero.”

After a little bit more small talk, I finished signing in, wished Cathy a good day, and headed into the East Wing, the area that had been off-limits when Bennett and I had arrived Sunday. Cathy assured me that the police had gotten all they needed from the crime scene (
alleged
crime scene, I silently corrected) and that Percy and Kyle had been allowed to return to their apartment.

“It's the last one at the end of the hall before you make a left,” she said, pointing. “Straight on at the corner. You can't miss it. If Percy's not there, try the Sun Gallery. He loves playing cards and is always looking for someone to join him.”

Percy played cards? Interesting. Frances had mentioned that even though he had severe physical limitations and his hands didn't always cooperate, he was still able to manage a self-injection when necessary. Apparently he managed other tasks as well.

“Thanks, Cathy.”

“Let me know if you hear any news,” she said as I walked away.

I smiled over my shoulder and waved.
Not a chance.

As I pushed open the doors to the East Wing, I was struck by how very un-nursing-home-like it was. When Bennett and I had been shuttled to the Sun Gallery on Sunday, we'd traversed a wide, rather utilitarian hallway. It had been attractive enough—even homey—for an assisted-living facility. But nothing special.

This section, on the other hand, made me believe I'd stepped into a luxury hotel. From the high-quality paintings that hung along both long walls, to the cream-colored wainscoting, to the mini-chandeliers suspended from the coffered ceiling, to the gentle notes of classical music that accompanied me as I made my way down a golden hardwood corridor, the allure of this space took me by surprise.

Six-panel cherrywood doors ran along both sides of this hallway spaced about fifty feet apart. Closed, each sported a decorative brass knocker and had a cheery welcome mat placed on the floor out front. From the looks of the decorative wreaths, floor plants, and crafty personalization at each one,
I got the impression that residents in this wing were allowed to enhance their abodes however they pleased.

I slowed my pace to peruse the names of the occupants. Three apartments belonged to married couples; the fourth displayed two female names.

Straight ahead, I spotted a fifth resident door exactly where Cathy had said it would be—at the far end of the hall where the corridor made a sharp turn to the left. That had to be Percy's place. I hadn't seen Gus's name on any doors thus far, and—come to think of it—hadn't seen Kyle's, either. Maybe their rooms were located farther down the hall to the left. I'd have to find out.

I reached to knock at Percy's door, then pulled my hand back in surprise. Percy's, Gus's, and Kyle's names were all listed there. The three men lived together?

“May I help you?”

I turned.

A workstation sat about fifty feet down the long hall to my left, staffed by two women and a man. One of the women, the younger of the two, beckoned me over.

As I made my way toward them, I replayed Frances's descriptions in my head. The thirty-something young man had a slim build, fresh acne lacing the hollows of both cheeks, and hipster chin stubble. He leaned against a tall cabinet. I had no doubt this was Santiago. Frances hadn't been able to provide much detail on the guy's personal life, but she'd eagerly shared her opinion, telling me that he was arrogant, snippy, and insincere. Worse, he had connections; his mother was on Indwell's board of trustees.

However unpleasant his personality, I was glad to see him. He was first on my conversations-to-have list today.

The twenty-something woman—the one who'd beckoned me over—had a dark complexion and the kind of skin that could sell beauty creams by the truckload. This must be Tara. I reminded myself: newly engaged to be married. Always professional. Always upbeat.

The final member of the trio—Debbie, the nurse we'd met
Sunday—squinted at a computer monitor as she tapped at the keyboard. According to Frances, Debbie was divorced with no kids. She split her time between working at Indwell and taking care of an aged mother. Frances had told me that, like Tara, Debbie was always helpful, but more “down-to-earth.” She apparently was one of the few staff members Gus had actually liked.

Cathy hadn't remembered me; maybe Debbie wouldn't, either.

“Hello,” I said as I approached the trio. “I'm here to visit Percy Sliwa.”

At the sound of my voice, Debbie looked up, taking an extra second to adjust her focus from the screen to me. “Oh, hi,” she said. “Nice to see you again.” She glanced over at the young man briefly and frowned.

“How are you?” I asked. “How did things go after we left?”

She stood up to come out from behind the desk. “Let me walk you over to Percy's room.”

The black woman with the gorgeous skin looked confused by Debbie's offer. “It's right there.” As she pointed, I caught a glimpse of her name tag. Yep. Tara. “It's not like she's going to get lost.”

“But Grace and I have so much to talk about,” Debbie said with a laugh.

Although it was nice that she'd remembered my name, it felt odd to have her scoop a hand through my elbow as though we were old friends. She tugged me away from the desk.

Debbie's demeanor practically screamed her intention to get me away from the young man. And he struck me as a person who didn't miss a beat.

He boosted himself from the cabinet. “Hello, there.” His keen, dark gaze assessed me even as his thin lips stretched to reveal wide, yellow teeth. It looked as though the effort to be pleasant caused him pain. “You're here to see Percy?”

“I am.”

“Interesting.” The young man's eyes narrowed. “I've never seen you here before.”

Debbie tugged my arm.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “I've never seen you, either.”

“Are you the woman Percy and Kyle were telling me about?”

I held up both hands, effectively dislodging Debbie's grip. “There's really no way for me to know, is there?”

When his eyebrows jumped, I got the impression he was amused. “True enough.” He shot me another insincere smile. “Let me put it a different way. Are you the woman who works with Percy's wife at Marshfield Manor?”

I could feel Debbie's dismay as I abandoned the path to Percy's room and veered back to the desk. “First of all, Frances is Percy's
ex
-wife,” I said with cutesy cheer, “but yes, I work with her at Marshfield. I'm Grace Wheaton.” I extended my hand.

He shook it. “Santiago Perez.”

“Nice to meet you, Santiago,” I said, thinking:
Knew it!

Debbie tapped my arm. I ignored her.

Santiago worked his big teeth over his bottom lip as he regarded me. “So how about Frances killing Gus?” he asked. “You know she would've gotten away with it if I hadn't been so observant.”

I feigned ignorance. “That was you?”

“Yeah, and I have to tell you, I'm not the least bit surprised. From the day Gus moved in, Frances had it in for him.” He bounced glances between Debbie and Tara. “Am I right?”

“I'm sorry to hear that you jumped to such a ridiculous conclusion,” I said. “Frances may grouse like it's an Olympic sport, but she'd never hurt anyone.” I maintained a tight smile. “Never.”

“I've been in this unit for seven years. That's longer than anybody else at this desk,” he said with another nod to the two women. “I've seen a lot. More than you can imagine. And I can tell you, unequivocally, that Frances wanted Gus out of that apartment, even if it meant she had to kill him to do it.”

“Santiago,” Tara said, keeping her voice very low, “didn't the police tell you not to talk about this?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “I don't hear you complaining whenever I share my updates.”

“Updates?” I asked. “There's more?”

“Lots more.”

How could eyes that dead have such expressive brows?