Reap a Wicked Harvest (11 page)

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Authors: Janis Harrison

BOOK: Reap a Wicked Harvest
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I repeated it and watched the door swing shut. I had little hope for any useful information, but there was always a chance. Five minutes passed and then ten. It was hot on the stoop. Beads of perspiration trickled down my back. Wistfully, I looked at my SUV. I'd left the engine running and the AC on. It was too tempting. I was turning to go when I heard footsteps from within the house.
This time when the door opened my smile had melted, quivering at the edges. The housekeeper took one look at me and said, “You spend most of your time inside, don't you? This heat really gets to a person who's used to air-conditioning.”
“It's plenty warm today.”
She chuckled. “That's an understatement. It's hotter than hell, but Missouri's like that—always extremes. Tomorrow we might need our long underwear, but I doubt it.”
She hunched her shoulders and spread out her hands. “Well, I've got some bad news. Mr. Hinkle remembers this Dixie. In fact that's what took so long. He remembered all sorts of things. One thought brought up another and another and another until I almost lost track of what you'd asked in the first place. Her father was a large animal veterinarian. Dixie used to accompany him when he went on medical calls. He died a couple years ago when he was gored by a bull. Her mother remarried and moved away. I tried to tell Harry Hinkle that you
wanted information on Dixie, not the family, but once he gets to reminiscing, he dredges up stuff that's no use to anyone.”
“That's all good to know, but did he say anything about Dixie?”
Mrs. Jamison pursed her lips. “I guess you could say Dixie lives in River City. Given her circumstances, I'd more say she exists here. Harry Hinkle says Dixie was depressed when she came home and tried to commit suicide. He says it was before his Ava got sick because she went to the hospital to visit her, and she's still there.”
I was confused. “Ava?”
“Good gracious, no. Ava was Harry Hinkle's wife. That poor woman is dead and buried. It's Dixie who's in the hospital. She's a mental patient out at that place on the edge of town. You know the one. It has the big black fence around it.”
“Coventry Acres?” I asked.
“That's it. That's the one. Harry Hinkle says that when Ava came back from visiting Dixie, she told him she'd never go again. It was too upsetting. Of course by that time the cancer had gotten a grip on her liver. She couldn't do much going even if she'd wanted to.”
“I appreciate all this information,” I said. I went down the steps and edged my way toward my vehicle.
Mrs. Jamison kept talking. “Harry Hinkle says Dixie used to sing. That's what she wanted to do—be a famous singer. He says she went to work at a greenhouse to get money for a bus ticket to Nashville. As far as he knows she never went to Nashville, but she did go up north. She came back to River City with a bunch of cash, but her father was dead and her spirit was broken. Harry Hinkle says Dixie had lost her ambition to be a singer and her will to live. That's when she tried to kill herself.”
When Mrs. Jamison paused to take a breath, I quickly said, “You and Mr. Hinkle have been a big help. Thanks again.”
Cold air enveloped me once I was behind the steering wheel. I backed out of the Hinkle drive and headed south. Three blocks later, I reached over and turned the AC down. My skin was hot, but inside I was cold. My condition had nothing to do with the temperature, but everything to do with what Mrs. Jamison had told me.
Paige had disappeared. Marnie had been murdered. Dixie had suffered a mental breakdown. Before I looked up anyone connected with Shannon Plummer, I had to see Dixie for myself. My next stop was Coventry Acres' psychiatric ward.
The black wrought-iron fence that encircled Coventry Acres was impressive. It seemed to stretch forever. The facility was one level and was built of red brick with white trim. Old trees had been preserved during the construction process. The leafy branches framed the building giving it a sheltered, protected air.
I parked in the visitor's lot and entered the main door through an atrium. Monstrous rubber trees and speckled dieffenbachia grew in redwood tubs. A blooming jasmine plant perfumed the air.
I filled my nose with the sweet scent, preparing myself for the coming odor of captive people in a confined area. Once I was in the main lobby, I took a tentative breath. Not bad. Smelled like nutmeg and cloves. I proceeded to the desk where two ladies were having an animated conversation.
“I'll take Tom Selleck over Mel Gibson any day,” said the older of the two. She had curly hair and a nice smile.
“But it was a good movie,” persisted the younger. She had eight earrings curving the edge of her right lobe. “At least the plot made sense, and the acting was believable.”
“I suppose, but I get tired of all the special effects. Cars blowing up. Bodies strewn around. I like a good old-fashioned
love story.” She turned to me and flashed her pearly whites. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
I showed her a rose. “I was hoping I could visit Dixie Ragsford.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Our singer rarely gets visitors. Let me check with the wing supervisor.” She picked up the phone and poked a couple numbers. Her voice was low, and the conversation was short.
She turned back to me and smiled again. “It's a go. Marilyn is sending you an escort.”
Surprised, I asked, “Do I need one?” I was thinking bodyguard.
The younger woman giggled. “I know what's on your mind, but you'll be fine. The only danger here is getting lost. Dixie is on D-wing. For a first-time visitor the corridors can be confusing.”
I nodded and turned to the older woman. “You called Dixie ‘our singer.' Does that mean she performs?”
“She croons to her dolls.”
“Will I be able to talk with her?”
“You can talk all you like, but she won't answer. She doesn't speak. She just sings.”
“And rocks,” added the younger woman. “She rocks in her chair and sings to her dolls.”
I was digesting this bit of information when a young woman hurried toward me. “Are you Dixie's visitor?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes,” I said. “My name's Bretta Solomon.”
“I'm Judy.” She looked at the rose in my hand. “If that flower has a wire, you'll have to remove it.”
I quickly pulled the wire off and wound it into a tight ball.
Looking around for a place to put it, I finally stuffed it down in my purse. “Now can I see Dixie?” I asked.
Judy nodded. “If you'll come with me.”
I thanked the ladies behind the reception desk, and then galloped after Judy, who loped down a corridor. “Why the rush?” I asked when I'd caught up to her.
She slowed her pace and grinned. “Sorry. These endless halls do it to me. I feel like Alice in Wonderland in the tunnel. I want to get to the end as soon as possible.”
Now that we were going at a slower pace, I looked through some of the open doors. The rooms were bright with sunlight. The walls painted muted beige with warm undertones. Oak veneer furniture and overstuffed upholstered chairs added a homey atmosphere. Patients/residents sat at windows or gazed at television sets. Most were old, some in wheelchairs.
Judy said, “This is the assisted living wing. B-wing is the infirm, most of whom are bedridden. C-wing is our new Alzheimer's unit. We're headed for D-wing. It's been known as psychiatric care, but the powers-that-be are now referring to it as BHU—Behavioral Unit, which doesn't have a stigma attached.”
“Do you take care of Dixie?” I asked.
“Yes. I have all summer, but next week is my last. I'm enrolled in nursing school. I'll miss my patients, but I'll be back to visit. This summer job has shown me that I'm not going into geriatric or psychiatric care. Too depressing. I'm thinking about obstetrics or pediatrics. I can't decide.”
I studied the young woman at my side. Her figure was plump. She used little if any makeup. I liked her fresh clean looks. “Tell me about Dixie,” I said.
Judy glanced at me. “I feel sorry for her. She's a talented lady,
but little good it'll do her. Her voice is that of a mature woman, but her mind is childlike.”
“Will she acknowledge that I'm in the room?”
“No.”
“Does she follow what you tell her to do?”
“If I say it's time for her bath, she'll undress. If I say it's time to get up, she'll put on the clothes I've laid out for her.”
“Does she ask for anything? A book or magazine? A piece of candy?”
“No.”
“But she sings?”
“Oh yes.”
“Does she do requests?”
Judy stopped in the middle of the corridor. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“I wasn't being flippant. I wondered if Dixie might respond to something besides her expected daily routine.”
Frowning, Judy said, “I've worked here all summer and you've never visited Dixie. I know you told me your name, but exactly why are you here?”
I didn't know how to answer. I wasn't going to get into the whole story but even part of it sounded strange. My silence didn't help matters.
Judy stalked off, saying over her shoulder, “I think you need to speak to my supervisor before I take you to Dixie.”
“No, please, I'll try to explain.” Judy stopped and waited. “I was hoping Dixie might be able to clear up a mystery for me. Perhaps you read in the newspaper about the woman who was murdered over the weekend?”
Judy nodded. “Outside of town at that greenhouse. But what does that have to do with Dixie?”
“Dixie used to work there.”
Judy shrugged. “She's been here for over two years. What could she know about something that took place recently?”
“I'm not sure, but her name came up on a job application form. I've been doing some investigating on my own.”
Judy's eyes widened. “Oh. Bretta Solomon. Now I know why that name sounded familiar. I've read about your amateur detecting. You're a florist, too.”
I felt my cheeks redden. “I'm a florist first, but yes, I do some sleuthing on the side.”
“I still don't understand what you think Dixie can tell you, but come on.”
“If it will ease your mind, you can stay in the room with us.”
“I planned on that. Dixie is a special lady. I don't want anyone or thing to upset her.”
“Is there any hope that she'll get better? That she'll resume a normal life?”
“I'm not a doctor, but I doubt it. I've read her case history and it's sad. She was gone from River City for about six months. When she came back, her father, whom she adored, had died. Her mother had a new boyfriend and was about to remarry. Dixie went into a deep depression and tried to take her life. She was hospitalized, but slipped into a catatonic state. She stayed that way for almost a year. Last Christmas someone wheeled her into the activity room for a program. The music reached her. She began to sing. She underwent another evaluation, but other than being able to sing, there hasn't been a change in her condition.”
“What kind of music does she prefer?”
“All kinds, but mostly country. Sometimes she'll sing”Amazing Grace.” When she does, we all get chills. It'll bring tears to your eyes.” Judy turned a corner and unlocked a door. “This is D-wing.”
I hesitated before I stepped over the threshold. Judy smiled. “Don't let the locked door bother you. It's here for the safety of our patients, some of whom like to wander. On D-wing the people are docile. We aren't licensed for violent cases.”
I nodded and followed Judy down a narrower hall. All the doors were open and showed rooms that were small and sparse. Where the other area had been furnished with wood furniture and upholstered chairs, here it was metal twin bedsteads and night stands. I gestured to a room. “The decorator must have skipped this section.”
Judy shrugged. “Most of these patients don't know where they are, let alone what kind of furniture they're sitting on. Besides, the state picks up the tab for their care. That doesn't include frills. Our patients are kept clean and medicated, entertained if they're interested. But most of all they're safe, from the general public as well as themselves.”
We turned another corner and Judy stopped at an open door. “Here we are,” she said softly. She walked into the room. In a kind voice, she said, “Hey, Dixie honey, you have a visitor. This is Bretta Solomon. Can you tell her hello?”
The young woman sitting in the rocking chair didn't respond. Judy spoke as she crossed the floor. “I told her how wonderful you sing. Can you give us a chorus or two?” No answer. Judy patted Dixie's hand and motioned for me to come forward.
I approached the young woman slowly. Light from an uncovered window played across her face. Her eyes were open but vacant. Her lips were tipped up in a slight smile. In her arms she cradled a rag doll, its face was pressed against her breast. She patted the doll's bottom, keeping time with the tempo of the rocking chair. She wore her long dark hair loose around her slim shoulders. She was dressed in faded blue jeans
and a pink T-shirt. Her feet were covered with a pair of fuzzy pink slippers.
Following Judy's hand gestures, I walked around in front of Dixie and leaned against the window frame. She looked normal if you discounted the expressionless eyes. I had to clear away the lump from my throat before I could speak.
“I'm … uh … pleased to meet you, Dixie. I have something for you. It's a rose. Do you like flowers?”
No answer.
I laid the rose on the windowsill. “I see you have a doll. I used to have one that was dressed just like yours. Only my doll's dress was red. You must like pink. Is it your favorite color?” I didn't expect a reply, but continued talking quietly. “My mother made all my doll clothes. I'm not very handy with a needle and thread.” I talked about nothing for a few more minutes, then said, “You and I have several friends in common. Do you remember Dan and Natalie Parker? Or Jess, Harley, Irma, Donovan, or Eugene?” I paused after each name but there wasn't any response, not even a flicker of an eyelash.
I looked at Judy and shrugged. “I guess I'd better go.” I leaned forward and touched Dixie's hand. “It was nice meeting you. Perhaps I'll come again. Would you like that?” Nothing. This time I couldn't keep the tears from filling my eyes.
Abruptly, Dixie stopped rocking. She didn't look at me, but held out her doll. I glanced at Judy for instructions.
She smiled. “Dixie offers her doll when she likes someone. Apparently, she likes you. You may hold her doll for a few minutes, but you have to give her back. Isn't that right, Dixie?”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the doll. As I turned the lump of stuffing around I saw it didn't have a face. I ran a fingertip over the puckered material where the button eyes had been
removed. “For safety reasons?” I asked, thinking about the wire I'd removed from the rose.
Judy quietly explained, “No. Dixie doesn't want faces on her dolls.” She pointed to three more sitting on the bed. “Several of the nurses have given her dolls, but Dixie plucks at the thread until it unravels and the features are gone. We've tried plastic dolls with fancy dresses and lifelike hair, but she hides them under her bed.”
I couldn't control a shiver. “Why?” I wondered aloud.
Before Judy could speak, Dixie grabbed the doll out of my hands. She tucked it protectively against her breast. Softly, she sang,
“Amazing Grace how sweet thou art
—”

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