Grace Sees Red (3 page)

“Here we are,” Cathy said as we stepped through a double-door entryway.

The Sun Gallery turned out to be a basketball court–sized room with a long wall of screened sliding glass doors, offering a wide view over the lake below.

A dozen people were scattered about the spacious area, most in small groups of two or three. Two elderly residents, heads down, sat knee-to-knee in a far corner, passing playing cards back and forth. Almost everyone glanced up at our arrival, faces suffused with curiosity. A couple of awkward seconds later, all of them returned to whatever they were doing. One hunched-over man with a blanket on his lap lifted his hand in a hesitant hello. I waved back. He squinted at us, dropped his hand, and turned away.

I could imagine how on a summer day, with its windowed doors thrown open and a warm breeze drifting in through its many screens, this room could serve as a cheery porch-like vista to enjoy the sun. But today, with inky storm clouds rolling in over the lake, the darkening room gave off an electric buzz.

Cathy wound her way toward the windowed wall through
a sea of wide-set pedestal tables, all of them featuring inlaid checkerboards. “This serves as our game room, too.”

“Very nice,” I said, because she seemed to expect it.

“Isn't it? Our guests are so fortunate to have such a lovely place to call home. Indwell is state-of-the-art.” She stopped long enough to whisper again. “Poor things. But when people can no longer take care of themselves, this is an ideal alternative.” She delivered this line with a beaming glance at Bennett. A second later, she called, “Percy,” to the man with his back to us, sitting farthest from the door.

He didn't respond.

As we made our way over, we passed a young man in a highly mechanized wheelchair. He rolled his head against the back of the chair's extended neck brace to face us. With curly black hair and a chin lined with facial scruff, he looked to be about twenty-five years old.

“Hey,” he called to us in a slurred but friendly manner. His eyes were a deep-set warm brown, and wide with interest. “You here to see Percy?”

Cathy dismissed him with a wave. “I'll be with you in a minute, Kyle.”

Kyle nudged a curled hand against the chair's controls, spinning to face us. “You have to be Frances's friends, right?” he asked.

Bennett and I stopped. In my peripheral vision, I noticed Percy perk up.

“We are,” Bennett said. “Do you know what's going on? Can you tell us?”

Kyle blinked and shot us a full-wattage grin. “Sure, I can.”

“Hold up there, kid.” Percy rotated his own motorized chair and whirred across the room to join us, parking himself between me and Bennett. “These folks are here to see me.”

Actually, we're here for Frances.

With his heavily freckled bald crown and smirking, what's-it-to-you expression, Percy was a doppelgänger for the actor Gene Hackman. He had a similar nose and lots of laugh-line wrinkles, but didn't seem particularly jolly right now.

“Hello,” I said, “I'm Grace Wheaton.”

He raised an elbow the way most people might shoo a fly. “I know who you both are. Nice to finally put faces to names.” He turned to Bennett, squinting up at him. “So you're Marshfield. I thought you'd be taller.”

Cathy giggled. “Isn't this funny? You know them but they don't know you. Why on earth did Frances keep you such a secret, Percy?”

“I'll tell you why.” Percy's deep, gravelly voice would be ideal for narrating luxury car commercials. “Because of this.” He winged both arms this time, twisting to face me. “She's embarrassed.”

I didn't know what to say, though clearly he expected some response. “I'm sure that's not—”

“You can't be sure. You don't know.” Though he cut me off, he didn't do so unkindly. Nodding toward the front of the building, he said, “Until five minutes ago you didn't even know I existed.” He turned to face Bennett. “Did you?”

Kyle inched his chair closer. “Frances talked about you two all the time. You think maybe when the police release her, we can discuss me coming out to visit Marshfield Manor? I'd really like to see it for myself one of these days.”

I tried to ignore my churning gut. “Why are the police talking with Frances?” I asked. The coroner out front, the mention of homicide detectives, Cathy referring to Frances as a “witness”—this was not good.

“Now, now, let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Cathy leaned in closer. She slid a glance toward the hallway. “We're not supposed to talk about any of this.” Her body language screamed that she was ready to spill.

A crack of lightning zinged across the gloomy sky. Before I could expel a breath, thunder rattled the windows.

“Young woman,” Bennett said. “I ask you to take pity on an old man's nerves and please tell us what's going on here and how Frances is involved.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “this morning—”

“Cathy, what's taking you so long?” I glanced up to see
Debbie calling from the Sun Gallery entryway. “I need help up front.”

“Oops. Gotta run.” Cathy's grin never dimmed. “I'll catch up with you later.”

When she was gone, Percy gestured with his eyes. “Have a seat, both of you,” he said. “I'd offer to pull out a chair for you, Grace, but”—he winged his elbows again—“gallantry doesn't come easy for me these days.”

Although he delivered the words with self-deprecating humor, there was distinct sadness in his eyes.

Using the thumb and index finger of his right hand, Percy manipulated his wheelchair's joystick, deftly maneuvering the conveyance to a nearby table with his back to the windows. While Bennett and I dragged wooden chairs from the room's perimeter to join him, Kyle zoomed over to settle across the checkerboard from Percy. Parked sideways, Kyle beamed like a kid who'd just graduated to the adults' table and couldn't wait to make a mess.

Thunder continued to crash outside as we settled ourselves. Flashing twigs of light skittered across the murky sky.

Nearly out of patience, Bennett leaned forward, keeping his voice low, his attention lasered on Percy. “Right now I don't require an explanation as to who you are or why Frances comes to visit you here. All I care to know is where she is and what's going on.”

“It's going to be fine. I'm sure it is,” Percy said. “That is, if she can keep her wisecracking to a minimum.”

“I don't want empty assurances. I want facts.”

“I can tell you,” Kyle said.

“One step at a time, kid.” Percy gave a very Gene Hackman–like wink. To Bennett, he said, “It would help if you didn't interrupt.”

Bennett's eyes blazed, but he sat back and drew in a deep breath. “Very well.” He splayed his hands atop the checkerboard tabletop. “You have the floor.”

I guessed Percy to be about ten years younger than my uncle, but whatever health issues he faced aged him. I found
him attractive in an older-man sort of way—but then again, I'd always harbored a secret crush on Gene Hackman.

“First of all, although I am able to use my hands and fingers, doing so requires considerable effort. I tend to use my elbows to gesture when I talk.”

Bennett said nothing but his expression spoke volumes.

“I tell you this so you don't get worried that I'm having a seizure or something.” He shot me a crooked grin. “People do.”

It took all my restraint to calmly urge, “Go on.”

Percy pointed with his chin. “Kyle over there and I live in the East Wing. As does—well, er, did—a guy named Gustave Westburg. We call him Gus. He was old, crabby, and a real pain to have around, wasn't he, Kyle?”

“I liked him.” The younger man cackled. “Never had a nice thing to say about anybody else, though.”

“He didn't belong here,” Percy said.

“Who didn't belong here?” I asked. “Gus?”

“Right. He shouldn't have been allowed to live with us. He had serious health issues.”

“He probably shouldn't have been allowed in our wing at all,” Kyle added.

Perhaps reading the confusion on my face, Percy explained, “This isn't a nursing home. Not in the typical sense.” He rolled his gaze up and around the room. “Each building tends to specialize in some affliction. Except ours. We're the mishmash, aren't we, Kyle?”

He grinned. “A real melting pot.”

“Indwell maintains state-of-the-art facilities for all its patients,” Percy said. “One of the buildings you passed on the way is a mental health facility. Another one is for little kids, and another is a rehab center for amputees. People go in and out of that place all the time. No long-term patients there. Not like here.”

“Mishmash,” Kyle repeated. “This wing is for non-ambulatory patients, but our wing is for people like us who can do most things themselves and who don't need
round-the-clock medical attention. I guess it kind of averages out that way.”

“Our wing is designed for people like me and Kyle here,” Percy said. “Our rooms are different from the ones at this end. More like small apartments. Our mobility issues are severe enough that we can't live on our own but we're both basically healthy. Gus wasn't. He shouldn't have been with us, but when money talks, people listen. It's different in the East Wing.”

“More space, more autonomy,” Kyle said.

“More expensive, too. Our rooms are specially outfitted.” Percy flailed again as he talked. “I'm telling you, Gus didn't belong there. He was already going downhill by the time he moved in.”

“But money talks?” I prompted. Bennett caught my eye and nodded approvingly. I knew he'd picked up on that comment, too. “What did you mean by that? I get the impression everyone who comes to live here is wealthy.”

“Not everyone. Not me, for sure. As with anything, there are degrees,” Percy said with a sly grin. “Gus and a buddy made a fortune investing in business together. He's not a gazillionaire like you”—this directed to Bennett—“but he was rich. And then, as the story goes, he got sick. Like me and Kyle, he couldn't live on his own. But, unlike us, he has kids.”

“He didn't want to live with one of them?”

“They didn't like him very much.” Percy barked a laugh. “Nobody did. So the kids decided to bring him here. Thing is, once Gus toured the place and saw how much better the apartments were than the regular rooms, he refused to live anywhere else.”

“If the apartments are as nice as you describe, I'm surprised more people don't make that choice.”

“They can't.” Kyle shook his head like a toddler refusing to eat green beans. “Percy and I don't require constant medical care. Gus did. People that sick can't live in the apartments because it's too hard on the nursing staff.”

“But again, unlike us, Gus was ambulatory,” Percy said, pulling the conversation back to his side of the table. “He
didn't need a wheelchair. Not even a cane. He moved slowly and he usually carted an oxygen tank behind him, but he could get around on his own. He should have been assigned to
this
end of the building but after Gus pressured them, the administration agreed to make an exception and allow him on our side. For a reasonable fee, of course.” Percy dug his elbows into his seat back to readjust himself. “When Frances and I left Indwell this morning, Gus was alive. When we got back, he was dead.”

“Where did you go?” I asked.

“Church. There's a chapel in one of the other buildings, but we don't go there. Frances takes me to a parish about ten minutes away and then out to breakfast.”

“Hmph,”
Bennett said. “That explains a lot.”

“It does?” I asked.

“You know how Frances is,” he said. “She doesn't have a lot of friends at Marshfield. Years back, when she first started leaving for the weekend, everyone was atwitter that she wasn't attending church in Emberstowne anymore. Many unkind remarks were whispered behind her back. I did my best to put a stop to it, but there was only so much I could do.”

“That's terrible,” I said. “Frances's choice to worship, or not, is no one's business but her own.”

“True,” Bennett agreed, “but because Frances pokes her nose into everyone else's affairs, I think they felt turnabout was fair play.”

“She wasn't always like that.” Percy frowned. “As far as the church stuff goes, I think it's a colossal waste of time, but it's important to her that I atone for all my sins. Of which there are many, as I'm sure you'll soon learn. But once that woman sets her mind to something, she won't be convinced otherwise. Every week she packs me up and off we go. I don't have it in me to walk away.” Using his chin to gesture toward his lifeless legs, he smirked. “Literally.”

“If you and Frances were gone when Gustave died,” Bennett asked, “why is she considered a witness? What could she possibly have seen?”