What She Never Said

by Catharine Riggs

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” She stares at me, and I get a creepy sensation the woman can read my mind.

  “I better get going,” I say, taking a few steps toward the door. “Gotta make my rounds.”

  “Wait.” She fingers her jeweled cross. “Is Kai gone for the day?”

  “Yep.”

  “Too bad. I wanted to speak to him about Dario Panini. Unless you did.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Weren’t you listening in on our conversation?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitates and then cracks a thin-lipped smile. “I should formally introduce myself.” She extends a hand. “I’m Pastor Sam.”

  I take her hand in mine. It’s strong and cool to the touch. “Zach Richards.” She nods and releases her grip. “Well, Zach Richards. I owe you an apology. I’m afraid I’ve been quite rude.”

  “Not at all.”

  “It’s just that Mr. Panini had me running scared.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “There’s some family history that I’m not at leave to discuss. Let’s just say he should be considered a dangerous man. He’s also quite litigious. I believe he was trying to set us up with that nonsense about his mom.”

  “Then you might want to turn him in for hitting the caretaker.”

  She sighs and leans against the desk. “I believe I’ve handled the situation correctly, but you never know. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to update Kai. It’ll be up to him to decide if we should press charges. I think I’ll leave him a note.”

  “Okay. I better get back to my rounds.”

  She smiles at me, quite kindly this time. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  “Thanks.” For some reason, her words make me happy.

  That’s because you’re a needy man, Tina says as I head off into the night.

  “No, I’m not.”

  Wanna bet?

  “Nope.” Not when I’m sure to lose.

  Six

  Thursday, July 25

  It’s midsummer, and the night is muggy hot. The tropical storm brewing off Baja has sent high waves and humidity all along the Pacific coast. I’m making my second loop around the perimeter of the campus when I hear voices drifting from the memorial garden.

  “Hello?” I call out, hoping against hope I don’t run across Ember.

  It’s mean the way you avoid her, Tina says.

  “I’m not trying to be mean.”

  Well, you are.

  “Go away.”

  Would you avoid me if I hadn’t died?

  I slap my forehead like I’m gunning for a gnat.

  There’s no moonlight to pave my way, but when my flashlight brightens the inside of the enclosure, I see only hedges standing tall and firm. I step behind the memorial stone, and a shadowy cave catches my eye. I kneel to find a tunnel in the hedge, large enough for a human to slip through. A piece of black cloth is caught in a branch. I press it between my fingers and catch a whiff of something old and musty. Could a guest have crawled through here? Doubtful. So who else could it be?

  After stuffing the cloth in my pocket, I get to my feet, and a bolt of pain shoots through my leg. Stumbling backward, I sink onto the cement bench, where I rest for a while before lugging myself up and out of the enclosure in search of aspirin and coffee. I take a shortcut through the outlying villas, where the wealthiest guests reside in three dozen single-story duplexes. I’ve heard these guests spend millions outfitting their pads, and most of their storybook gardens are overseen by private staff.

  I hear a rustling coming from a nearby garden, so I limp up the stamped cement sidewalk and shine my light behind a vine-covered hedge.

  “Who’s there?” a voice calls out.

  I flash my light across the darkened veranda; it lands on a tower of flaming-red hair.

  “Security, ma’am.”

  “Zach? Is that you?” Draped in a yellow-and-black leopard-print robe, Mrs. Harrington rests on a lounge chair. The tip of a cigarette glows between her fingers; a drink tinkles in her hand. There’s a single wavering candle on the glass side table, giving off a sweetish wisteria scent.

  “Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Harrington. Conducting a security check.”

  “Why be so formal? Please call me Kate.”

  “All right, Kate.”

  “Now turn off that light before you blind me and come take a seat.”

  I’ve broken enough rules since I’ve been here without adding fraternizing to the list. “I can’t do that,” I say, snapping off the flashlight. “I have my rounds to finish up.” My voice sounds harsh to my ears. I try to tone it down. “Besides, it’s past two in the morning. You should get your beauty sleep.”

  “Beauty sleep?” she laughs. “I like that.” She pats the chair beside her. “Won’t you entertain me for a few moments? Please? Do something nice for a lonely old gal? Share a glass of whiskey with a former Texas belle.”

  “I shouldn’t. It’s against the rules.”

  “Rules? Life is way too short to play by the rules. Besides, I pay a fortune for this place to make me happy. And at the moment, it would make me happy to chat with you. If nothing else, your kindness will help an old lady through another long and lonely night.”

  Poor thing, Tina says. You should stay.

  “And lose my job?”

  At this time of night, who’s to know?

  “Talk to yourself much?” Kate asks.

  I tap my earpiece and glance at the French doors. “What about your husband? He won’t mind?”

  “Gordon?” She sighs. “Poor man doesn’t know day from night.”

  “Dementia?”

  “Compounded by a stroke.”

  “Why isn’t he living in the champion’s unit?”

  “I prefer he stays with me.”

  “That’s a lot of work for one person.”

  “I’m not alone. I have a steady stream of caretakers that watch him around the clock.”

  “Serenity Acres employees?”

  She shakes her head. “I use an outside service.”

  “And management allows that?”

  “As long as I pay the bills.”

  “That must cost you an arm and a leg.”

  “Thirty thousand a month, give or take, but what else can I do? I refuse to stick my husband in a dementia home or a snif.”

  “A snif?”

  “A skilled nursing facility. Terribly dreary places. No. I’d never do that. I know I’m an old lady, and you might find this hard to believe, but Gordon was the love of my life.”

  “Was?”

  She finishes off her drink. “The man in there isn’t my Gordon. My Gordon is long gone. Still, I feel responsible for his remaining shell. I’ll take care of him until it’s too much.”

  “Too much for you or too much for him?”

  She hesitates. “Both, I guess. Now, have that drink with me, please? Just one? Entertain me for a little bit? I promise no more depressing talk. I want to forget all that.”

  I glance at the woman and consider and then proceed to shrug off the rules. “All right,” I say. “But you can’t tell anyone, and that includes your gal pals.”

  “I pinky promise,” she says, laughing. “This rendezvous will be our little secret. Now let me pour you that drink.” She whips out a bottle of Maker’s Mark from beneath her chair and pours it into a waiting glass. It’s like she knew I’d pass by this evening. A nursery rhyme pops into my head. “Will you walk into my parlor,” says the spider to the fly.

  I think to tell her I don’t drink, but then I stop, because the truth is, I do. And who’s it going to hurt? If nothing else, it might take the edge off my aching knee.

  It gets to be a thing with Kate and me. Between rounds, usually at one or two in the morning, I’ll take a break and sit with her out on her covered veranda. She has a western-facing
view, so on clear nights, we can watch the moon settle into the darkness. My whiskey always waits for me, poured as I like it. Two inches, neat. Never more, never less.

  What I’m doing is against the rules, but hell, I enjoy the old lady, and she enjoys me. We sit in the darkness of her veranda, lit up by a scented candle or two. She has those twinkly lights strung in and around the hedges. Some nights we’ll share a cigarette. On occasion she breaks out her medicinal pot. And something about the time of night and the shadows lead us to tell our truths. It’s like we’re not really talking to each other but carrying on a conversation with ourselves. It’s a kind of therapy, I suppose.

  After a few nights of chatting, I tell her about Hunter. From the catch in her voice, I know that she knows how much it hurts. I also spew about my years of hard drinking and my tendency to hoard. Eventually I mention Tina. Kate wants to meet her, but that’s not up to me. Tina doesn’t show up on demand, and she’s not sure we can trust my new friend.

  Tonight, Kate has had a couple extra drinks and exudes a quiet sadness. After a while she opens up.

  “Gordon had an incident this morning.”

  “An incident?”

  “He dislodged his feeding tube.”

  “He can’t eat on his own?”

  “No. His throat muscles have stopped functioning correctly, so bits of food and drink can slip into his lungs. It’s called dysphagia, a common but horrific symptom of advanced dementia that results in ongoing bouts of pneumonia.”

  “That sounds awful.”

  “It is. And it’s made worse by the feeding tube stuck in his side. That thing may keep him alive, but his quality of life is at an all-time low.”

  “So why use it?”

  She makes a face, eyes flashing. “I wouldn’t if it were up to me, but his absentee sons insisted. In fact, they went to court to force the procedure. He hates the feeding tube. I know it. I have to keep his hands tethered so he won’t yank it out. It’s a form of torture—a horrible thing to watch.”

  I shiver at the thought of strangling to death with my hands tied by my side. “Would he have wanted the tube?”

  “Not in a million years. It’s cruel and dehumanizing. We treat animals better than we treat humans. It’s immoral as far as I’m concerned.”

  “So you’re a proponent of euthanasia?”

  She takes a sip of her drink, the ice tinkling like wind chimes. “Can you imagine the cruelty of seeing a loved one slowly choke to death? Because that’s what’s happening to my Gordon.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I say. I picture Tina for a moment. Her burned body at the morgue. How I’d damned God for not letting her live and then thanked him for not letting her suffer. “So who are these sons?” I ask. “They ever visit?”

  “My stepsons? No. Never.” Her tone sounds harsh, but I catch her swiping at a tear. “Anyway,” she says, “enough of that. Would you mind helping me with an errand?”

  “As long as it’s not illegal.”

  “It’s not.” She whips a thick envelope from her pocket and hands it to me. “There’s $6,000 in here, cash. I’d like you to deliver it to Selena Ornelas. She’s not to know it came from me.”

  “Who’s Selena?”

  “A senior caretaker in assisted living. She’s quite good at her job.”

  “So, this is some kind of tip?”

  “Let’s call it a donation to a private cause. Her oldest daughter needs braces, but her husband’s been deported, so she’s struggling to care for three little ones all on her own.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Yes. Bummer is right. Anyway, I want you to give her the money and tell her what it’s for. Under no circumstances should you disclose who is behind the gift. Not to her, nor to anyone else.”

  “But why . . . ?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a way to relieve my conscience for an incident in my past.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “What? You were mean to one of your sorority sisters?”

  “That and more. Besides, I’ve lived a fortunate life, and I like to give back to those I consider deserving, but I prefer it to be a private act. I don’t want or need to be thanked. Or have my photo splashed across the press, or God forbid someone presents me with a frivolous award at some over-the-top fund-raiser. I have money, and I’ll spend it as I wish, my greedy stepsons be damned. So, will you help me?”

  “Sure.” What can it hurt?

  “Good. Now, tell me about your day. Anything interesting happen?”

  I open my mouth to respond but pause when my earpiece crackles. “Richards to the security office. Code blue!”

  “Gotta go,” I say, finishing off my drink. “There’s a code blue.”

  “Code blue?” She laughs. “Better hurry. One of us chickens must’ve flown the coop.”

  Seven

  Friday, August 16

  At three a.m. the security office is a whirr of activity with our supervisor, Finn, yelling on the phone. Three young guards are standing nearby. They’re inseparable and not especially friendly, so weeks ago I nicknamed them Manny, Moe, and Mac. They jump like startled puppies when Finn bangs down his phone. “Hell if we haven’t lost one,” he says. Our square-jawed boss with the iron handshake looks like he’s getting ready to kill. “That doesn’t happen under my watch.” He almost spits the words.

  Finn is new here, and his reputation preceded him. A decorated marine turned professional soldier for hire, he spent twenty years in and around Iraq before landing a cushy job overseeing Lost Horizon’s security. He arrived on our campus at the beginning of August to implement beefed-up security plans.

  “What kind of shithole place is this?” he demands, staring straight at me. The man lacks a single eyelash. I picture him plucking them one by one. “Are you awake?” he barks when I don’t answer.

  “Sure, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  He places his hands on his hips and swivels. “That’s the goddamned problem here. No one knows nothing ’bout nothing. Bunch of idiots running the farm.” He fixes his laser sights on me. “What’s your name again?”

  “Zach.”

  “Last name.”

  “Richards.”

  “Well, Richards the Ungreat, you were supposed to be on perimeter duty.”

  Perimeter? Should I tell him this ain’t Iraq?

  “See anything strange out there?”

  Out in the wilds of Santa Barbara? “Nope. Not a thing.”

  “What? Sleeping on the job?”

  I open my mouth to argue and then think back on the whiskey neat. If I’m not careful, he’ll order a drug test, and that’ll be the end of me.

  “Shit,” he says for the umpteenth time, shaking his head in disgust. He points to each and every one of us. “Your slack behavior will change, starting right now.” He shouts these last two words, his ruddy face gone beet red. “Understand?”

  We all nod our heads in agreement, no one daring to say a word.

  “Good. Then I don’t have to explain why I need our little problem to be solved, faster than quick.” He turns to his computer and brings up a headshot of an elderly guest. “A Simon Appleton has gone missing. He’s eighty-five, diabetic, and housed in independent living. A rich bugger, made his money in pharmaceuticals. Anyone know the man?”

  “I’ve seen him around,” Moe answers. “He’s mobile and doesn’t use a walker. Could be a mile away by now.”

  “Why the hell don’t we lock them in?” Finn asks, as if we’re personally responsible for management’s decisions.

  Moe sticks his neck out again. “There aren’t any restrictions in independent living, so the guests can come and go as they please.”

  “Maybe we need to change that.”

  Moe shrugs. “Maybe.”

  Finn runs his hands through his crew cut like he might rip out the nubs. “You idiots head out on foot,” he says, signaling to the security triplets. “You,” he points at me. “
With that gimp leg of yours, you’ll have to drive.” He tosses me a set of keys, which I promptly proceed to drop.

  “I’ll come with you.” Ruth stands at the doorway, dressed in black sweats and running shoes. She looks pale and thin, charcoal shadows ringing her eyes.

  “What’re you doing here?” Finn asks with a frown.

  “I always get called when there’s a code blue. I’m the supervisor in charge.”

  “Not anymore, you aren’t.”

  Ruth’s bristles with anger, her cheeks flushing red. “As the VP of operations, I’ve always managed the code blues.”

  Finn turns to his computer. “I suggest you check in with your boss. You’ll see those duties have been reassigned to security. I’m in charge now.” He sits and fumbles with the mouse. “But since you’re here, you’re welcome to help out. You can play shotgun to Richards the Ungreat.”

  “Who?”

  I grab Ruth’s arm and lead her from the room before she can say another word. Once outside, she yanks away. “I’m going back in there,” she says. “He can’t speak to me like that.”

  I shake my head. “Maybe you should check with Kai first. I mean, why would Finn make it up?”

  She exhales. “I suppose this is something Kai would do. I’ll ask him tomorrow.” She glances at her Fitbit. “I mean I’ll ask him today. My review’s in a few hours.”

  “Your review? That 360 thing? Didn’t you get it weeks ago?”

  “Yeah. But he’s been too busy to discuss.”

  “You better control yourself.”

  “I will. Now let’s go.”

  We head across the shadow-lined parking lot and climb into the security van. “Which way?” I ask when we reach the gates.

  “Turn right. They usually head toward town.”

  “Do escapes happen often?”

  Ruth shakes her head. “Not since we started tagging the champions. It’s the in-betweens that usually slip through.”

  “In-betweens?”

  “Guests who are in transition from mentally stable to cognitively dull. That’s usually when we lose one. And that typically gets blamed on me.”

  “I thought Finn said he was responsible.”

  “I doubt they’ll point the finger at him.”

  “True.” I focus on the task at hand. I’m driving ten miles per hour in the thirty, peering deep into the shadows.