“Before we get off on that subject," I said hastily, “what happened with Joyce Sanders this morning, McQuaid? You were going to talk to her about Miss Velma.”
“I did,” McQuaid said. His face was serious. “I reported Angie’s claim of abuse, and asked her to check into it. She said she'd talk to Angie as soon as the girl could be located. When I went off for my second session with the physical therapist, she was on her way to examine Miss Velma herself. I stopped at her office just before you came, to see what she had learned. But she’s apparently gone to San Antonio for a meeting.”
“How did she respond?” Ruby asked. “Did she seem to take it seriously?”
“You bet. In fact, I thought she was expecting something of the sort. She didn’t seem totally surprised.”
The barbershoppers were repeating the last, mournful verse of “Bury Me Not,” and the line “Fling a handful of roses over my grave” trembled in the air. At that moment, the sun went behind a cloud, and the afternoon’s brightness was dimmed.
“What did Joyce say about Mrs. Rogers’ death?” I asked.
“The woman had a history of heart trouble,” McQuaid said. “That’s what’s listed as the cause of death.”
“The famous cardiac arrest,” I said dryly. “The victim died when her heart stopped beating.”
“I suppose there’ll be an autopsy,” Ruby said, brushing at the insistent bee.
"Uh-uh.” McQuaid shook his head. “The funeral home has already taken the body for cremation. That’s what the family wanted.”
Ruby made a protesting noise. "But that means that Opal Hogge might be getting away with — ”
"It’s possible," McQuaid said. "But Joyce had no legitimate reason to interfere with the family’s arrangements. Anyway, by the time she and I talked, Mrs. Rogers was on her way.”
"To a narrow grave, just six by three,” I said quietly. “What?” Ruby asked, startled.
"Bury me not on the lone prairie,” I said. “'Haven't you been listening to the song?”
McQuaid turned to me. "Any new developments on your end of this Opal Hogge business?”
"Yes, actually,” I said. And to the lilting tune of “I Want a Girl Just Like the Girl that Married Dear Old Dad,” Ruby and I told him about our conversation with Angie and Carita, and Ruby's idea about talking to Liz McKenzie. 1 reported MaeBelle’s plan to move her aunt out of the Manor. "Once that’s done,” I said, "I don’t think there’s a great deal of urgency about the situation.” "That’s probably true,” McQuaid said. He reached for my hand. "I’m glad you thought of getting Velma moved, China. When I stopped in to check on her, she was upset and almost incoherent. Crying and carrying on about Mrs. Rogers and those papers she mentioned the other night.” "Papers?” I asked. “I wonder what that's all about.” “It could be anything,” Ruby said. “When we moved my grandmother to the nursing home in Waco, her house was full of old letters. Until the day she died, she’d beg people to go back to her house and find a letter from
Dahlia or Daisy or whoever, so she could read it. Never mind that her son had sold her house to pay her nursing home bills and her letters had long since been burned. Afterward, my mother said she was soriy we hadn’t kept them.”
"Did Miss Velma mention Opal Hogge in connection with Mrs. Rogers’ death?” I asked.
McQuaid shook his head. "She mentioned her, but it’s hard to say what the context was.” He glanced at me. "Why don’t you talk to her, China? You might pick up something I’m missing.”
Ruby lifted her hands and ran them through her gingery hair. "How about me? I don’t know if she would remember me, but it might be worth a try.” McQuaid and I nodded.
Inside, the Sweet Adelines had flung themselves exuberantly into "The Yellow Rose of Texas.” "Gosh, McQuaid looks good, China,” Ruby said, as we walked back to the car. "Almost back to normal. How is the therapy coming along?”
"I don’t know all the details,” I said, "but the therapist has him on some sort of apparatus that supports him while his legs learn to move.” I unlocked the car door, got in, and opened Ruby’s door. "The important thing, though, is the change in his attitude. Last week, he seemed so . . . defeated. Now, he seems determined.”
"It’s getting married,” Ruby said knowingly. "It gives him something to occupy his mind.”
"If you ask me, it’s the investigation into Jerry Jeff Cody’s death,” I said, putting the key into the ignition. “That’j what’s occupying his mind. Not to mention the problems at the Manor. I — ”
The rest of my response was cut off by the insistent buzz of the car phone. It was Rosie Montgomery. I mentioned Fannie’s name, briefly explained what I wanted to know, and listened. She was not reluctant to talk. In fact, she was anxious. She was an old lady with a very loud voice, and she talked in circles.
“Well, you’ve certainly asked the right person,” she said. "My sister Hilda lived out her last years in that home. It’s a church home, you know, private. I was very well acquainted with the situation at the time, and I have some definite opinions, if you want to hear them.” Her pause for breath barely slowed her. “Of course, you have to remember that this is just my opinion, although I have to say that it’s shared by a lot of people. And I do mean a whole lot,” she added, with emphasis. "The whole thing left us with a bad taste in our mouths.”
"I do want to hear,” I said sincerely. "-What exactly was the situation?”
Mrs. Montgomery ’s voice was tinny, and so shrill I was tempted to turn down the volume. Instead, I held the phone away from my ear, so Ruby could hear too. "Of course,” she said, "I'm just one person, but to my way of thinking, it was just a crime what that Hogge woman did. Robbeiy, plain and simple. Though to give the devil her due, so to speak, it wasn’t all her fault. The board was to blame, too. They set the standard, you might say. If you know what I mean.”
"Not exactly,” I said, before she could begin a new paragraph. "To blame for what?”
"For the way they raised that money. Of course, the new building was terribly, terribly expensive and the operating expenses were just going higher and higher. I’m sure they had to do something desperate to make ends meet. And since the residents were church members, they must have felt they could get away with it.” She paused momentarily. "You still there?”
"Oh, yes,” I said. "In fact, I was wondering what they might have tried to get away with.”
“Good. I thought maybe we got disconnected.” She took a quick breath, then plunged ahead. "The families didn’t like it one bit, I’ll tell you. It made for such hard feelings that it split the church. Right down the middle, and things have never been the same since and never will. Some people were so sick at heart that they left and started their own — ”
"Get away with whatl” I asked. I was beginning to feel desperate, and beside me, Ruby was rolling her eyes. “What are we talking about, Mrs. Montgomery, if you don’t mind my asking?”
"Why, the solicitations,” she said, surprised. "The fundraising. Wasn’t that what you called about?”
“I don’t exactly know why I called,” I admitted, "except that Fannie Couch thought you might be able to tell me why Opal Hogge left her position. Mrs. Hogge was involved in some sort of solicitation?”
"Was she involved? Was she involvedl” Mrs. Montgomery gave a sarcastic laugh. "I’m here to tell you she was involved! Now, I’m not saying she did this on her own hook, mind you. The board gave her a green light to use any old methods she wanted, and somebody on the board even helped her make up a list of the residents' property and — ”
"So she approached the patients with a request for money, on behalf of the nursing home’s board?”
Mrs. Montgomery was beginning to run out of patience with me. "That’s what I’m saying, isn’t it?” she retorted indignantly. "With never a word to the families, not one single word! And offered to have the church lawyer draw up an entirely new will! Did you ever hear of such a nerve? Some of the residents, of course, were so
far gone that they could be persuaded to do anything if you just petted them up a little, and of course, Opal Hogge was veiy good at that. Petting, I mean. She’d stroke and smile and then pounce, just like a cat, tiying to get her claws on that money. My poor, dear sister—” Mrs. Montgomery interrupted herself with several mournful clucks, and was then moved to blow her nose.
“Your sister?” I prompted, when she was finished.
"—was completely taken in.” Mrs. Montgomery blew her nose again. “Totally.”
“She changed her will? In favor of the nursing home?”
"Gave them most of her money.”
“Ah,” I said. “I see.”
"Not that I cared for myself, of course,” Mrs. Montgomery said quickly. “Gerald and I are well enough fixed that we didn’t need any of Hilda’s money, although it would haye been nice to put a new roof on the house and maybe go to Disney World before we get too old to enjoy it. But it wasn’t the money, don’t you go thinking that! It was the principle of the thing, pure and simple. It was the idea of that Hogge woman, bold as a brass monkey with a stick in its hand, marching in on my sister when she was flat on her back, too sick to know what she was doing,
and talking the poor thing into signing all her money over . ** to—
“How much?” I asked.
The silence was the longest in the conversation so far. Finally, Mrs. Montgomery drew a long, shaky breath and said, “Fifty thousand dollars, more or less, split between me and my two older sisters. Gerald and I would’ve gone to court, but Sarah and Sadie just wouldn’t hear of it— Sadie's ninety-two and stubborn as an old nanny goat— so what could we do? Anyway, we’re church members, and we hated to act like the grinch who stole Christmas, if you know what I mean.”
"I’m sure,” I said.
"But we weren’t the only ones who were unhappy. Oh, no, not by a long shot, and some of them stood to lose a lot more than we did. When the families began to figure out what was going on—which mostly didn’t happen until after their dear one had departed, of course—they went to the board and gave them a piece of their minds. First the board tried to say that they’d written a piece about it in the home newsletter, which of course none of the families ever read. Then they said they never meant to interfere in people’s financial affMrs., it was only a way of helping the church pay the bills. Then they said it was Opal Hogge’s fault that the campaign got out of hand, that she must have gotten carried away and didn’t stop to think how families would feel about it.”
"So the board blamed Mrs. Hogge?”
"Yes, although most folks said it was purely hypocritical, because Opal Hogge was smart as a tack—you had to give her that much, regardless of how you felt about her—and she wouldn’t have stuck her neck out without somebody on the board egging her on. But she just wasn’t real well liked, and of course she wasn’t a member of the church, so she got all the blame and the board just looked stupid, rather than devious. Like she had pulled the wool over their eyes or something.”
"And they fired her?”
"Yes, which pleased Gerald no end, believe you me.” Her voice became pious. "But 1 told him, I said, 'Gerald, the Lord tells us to forgive our enemies,’ I said, and anyway, the damage was already done. The ones who were dead were dead, and their money went to the nursing home because most families felt like Gerald and me. They didn’t want to cause an uproar in the church, and they didn’t want people thinking they were stingy cheapskates.” Sarcasm edged the piety. "We’re supposed to give until it hurts. Although like 1 said, we’ve got this bad taste in our mouths about it.”
"Well, yes,” I said. "I can certainly see how there would be hard feelings against Mrs. Hogge."
“Hard feelings!” Mrs. Montgomeiy snorted a laugh. "Hard feelings! Believe you me, if she ever shows her face over here again, there are some people—God-fearing Christians, too, who go to church eveiy Sunday—who would tar and feather her. Tar and featherV'
I managed to get the name of the board president and the name and address of the church, and then said goodbye. I put the phone down and looked at Ruby, who was shaking her head incredulously.
"What a scam,” she said. "Doyou think it’s the truth?” "It’s not a scam,” I said, "at least, not from the church’s point of view. And I’m quite sure it u the truth. There was a veiy similar circumstance in Oregon a few years ago. In that case, a juiy convicted the nursing home director of extortion and fraud, and he went to prison.” I thought for a moment. "As I understood it, he had a clause in his contract with the nursing home, which gave him a percentage of whatever money he raised. That was why he was so eager to do a good job.”
Ruby made a face. "So,” she said, “now we know.” “Know what?” I asked. "We know what Opal Hogge was up to in San Antonio, but that doesn’t necessarily shed any light on what’s going on here. According to MaeBelle, her aunt was poor as a church mouse when they brought her here. She’s probably on Medicaid by now. I doubt if Bunny was shaking her down for a few odd quarters.”
"Well, then, how about other residents? Mrs. Rogers, for instance?” Ruby cocked her head thoughtfully. “Maybe Mrs. Rogers rewrote her will in favor of the nursing home.”
"Maybe,” I said. "But we’d have to ask the niece, and I don’t think we ought to do it while the family is still dealing with the death. After I’ve talked to Burkhart, I'll let McQuaid know what Rosie Montgomery told us, so he’s up to speed. As you said, we have plenty of other things to do.”
I turned the key in the ignition. That being the case, it was time to start doing them. •
Lulu Burkhart had told McQuaid that her husband would be back from Houston on Monday afternoon. I decided not to phone ahead, thinking that I might learn more by surprising the Burkharts with a few off-the-cuff questions. So I let Ruby off at the shop to call Fannie and get names, and drove to the Burkhart house, in one of the newer subdivisions on the outskirts of Pecan Springs. I pulled up in front shortly after five. I caught Craig Burkhart, all right, but his wife wasn’t there.
"Soriy,” Burkhart said when he answered the door, an ornately carved, varnished oak affair with a large oval panel of stained glass. "You just missed Lulu. She took Pete to play soccer over at Johnson Field.” He grinned easily. "She’s one of those soccer moms this year. Out there every week, giving the coach hell if her boy doesn’t get out on the field.” He was in a dress shirt and dark slacks, tie off, sleeves rolled up, a heavy gold watch on his wrist. On the hallway table behind him, I could see a folded jacket and briefcase. "Want to leave a note or something?” he added pleasandy. "She won’t be back until after seven, and then we're going out to dinner.”
"Actually, I’ve come to talk to you, Mr. Burkhart.” I shifted my briefcase to my left hand and held out my right. "My name is China Bayles. I’m a friend of Alike McQuaid’s.”
"Yeah, Mike, sure.” He took my hand in a grip that was strong and self-assured. "How the hell is that old rascal? Somebody said he was one of the judges at the chili cookoff, so he must be getting around a bit. Too bad, what happened. I hope he’s better. You tell him I said so, y’hear?”
"I will. In fact, it was McQuaid who asked me to stop by and have a chat with you. He’s working on a case for a friend and he had a couple of questions he thought you might be able to clear up for him. May I come in?”
Burkhart’s face—a handsomely rugged face, darkened with a late-afternoon beard—registered slight surprise, and some mystification. But he stepped back and ushered me into the high-ceilinged hall. As I came in, I handed him one of my cards. He glanced at it and dropped it into his shirt pocket.
Although the Burkharts’ house still hadn’t settled into its sparse foundation shrubbery or lost its new-house smell, it was built to look a century old, with enough vintage trim and turnings, balusters and newel posts, molded casings and fretwork spandrels, beaded wainscot paneling, flocked wallpaper, and glass chandeliers to have pleased even the most opulent of Victorian tastes. The living room furnishings wer
e Victorian, too: a tufted red velvet love seat, carved antique tables, Tiffany-style lamps, fringed damask draperies, silk-flower bouquets in large
Chinese vases. A cut-glass dish of rose potpourri sat on the table, filling the room with a heavy fragrance. I almost smiled, thinking that Madame Iris Le Beaux and her girls would feel right at home here.
Burkhart, however, looked distinctly out of place. He shoved a footstool aside and lowered himself gingerly onto one of the chMrs., motioning me to take the love seat.
"My wife is into Victorian," he said, waving his hand around vaguely.
"She certainly is,” I murmured.
"To my taste, she overdoes it. But she spends more time at home, so I tell her to do what she likes." He dismissed the decor and focused on me. "You said you wanted to see me?”
"You’ve been out of town since yesterday, I understand."
He nodded briefly.
"You’re in commercial real estate?”
"Strip center development.” He quirked an eyebrow at me and smiled. We were moving onto his turf. 'T’ve got some outstanding pieces of properly, a number of fine locations anywhere between Austin and San Antonio. You in the market?” He cocked his head. “Or Mike, maybe? I brought him a sweet deal a couple of years ago, but he said he wasn’t ready to take the plunge.” He was regretful. "Too bad. He could’ve made a bundle on it. We’re out of the bust and into the boom again. Good strip locations are getting to be as rare as homy toads, but I’ve still got a few of the best. You tell him I said so. Anytime he’s ready—”
"I understand that you and Jerry Jeff Cody were involved in a disagreement over a joint-venture commercial property.”
“Yeah.” Burkhart’s head came up and his shoulders went stiff. There was a moment’s silence, followed by, "What was it you said Mike wanted?” He frowned, thinking. "What case?”
"You know, I suppose, that Jerry Jeff Cody is dead?” His eyes flickered. "Yeah. I heard that Saturday afternoon, when they cancelled the chili cookoff. Kind of threw a damper over the rest of the day.”
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