Ruth leans forward. “Over there,” she says. “In that field. I saw something move between the trees.”
I slow the van to a crawl.
“Yes. There he is. Right there.”
I park, and we hurry out into the moist predawn air, my flashlight bobbing across the field. It flashes on a stinky skunk, a deflated balloon, and a pile of burnt trash. After a few moments, a ghostly figure in a red sweater appears, stumbling along a rocky path.
“Mr. Appleton,” Ruth calls. “Please stop. You’re going to hurt yourself. There are lots of holes in the ground.”
The ghostly figure lifts a hand and waves us off. “Leave me alone!” he yells in a trembling voice.
“We’re here to help you. Please, please, stop.”
The red sweater takes a sudden tumble and hits the ground with a thud.
“Shit!”
Ruth takes off running, and I hobble behind, my knee shrieking for relief. By the time I reach them, Ruth is on her knees next to the man, speaking to him in a calm voice. “That’s not true,” she says. “I promise no one is going to hurt you.”
My flashlight lights up a skeletal face with a mouth stretched wide in horror. “They will,” he sobs. “I know it. They’re going to kill me, and I don’t want to die.”
“Of course you’re not going to die.” Ruth pats him on the shoulder. “Now tell me. Does anything hurt?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Okay, then. Let’s get you up.” Ruth helps the man to a sitting position, and I use my hands to brace his birdlike shoulders.
“There. Good job. Now, Zach and I will help you to your feet.”
“No!”
Ruth’s voice grows firm. “If you don’t get up, we’ll call an ambulance, and they’ll take you to the hospital. They may want to keep you there. You aren’t acting anywhere near normal.”
Mr. Appleton hesitates. “No ambulance,” he says. “I’ll go with you if you promise you won’t let them kill me.”
I was a detective for long enough to know I’m hearing real fear in Appleton’s voice. I help Ruth pull him to his feet. “Who’s planning to kill you?” I ask, linking my arm through his. He turns to me, and his ancient breath blows warm against my cold cheek.
“I can’t tell you. They . . . he will kill me. Tonight’s my pink slip night.”
“Pink slip? Wait.” Ruth pauses and turns to the man. “Do you mean pink Post-it Note?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just take me somewhere safe.”
Ruth frowns and then nods. “Of course we will. How about the infirmary? You’ll be safe there.”
“You promise?”
“Yes. Zach will protect you. He used to be a police detective.”
Mr. Appleton eyes me. “You have a gun?” he asks.
I pat my hip. “Of course,” I fib. “I’m carrying right now.”
“So you’ll stay with me until the sun comes up.”
Ruth signals that I should agree. “Sure, I’ll stay.” That’s my second lie. I won’t be sitting by anyone’s bedside. I still have rounds to do, paperwork to complete.
We help Mr. Appleton into the van, and moments later, we’re back on campus. Then we take him to the infirmary, where he’s tucked into bed in a private room and the attending nurse gives him something to help him relax. By the time we leave, he’s sleeping like a baby, if babies snore like rumbling trucks. Once outside we make our way back to the administrative offices. “What was that about?” I ask as we stroll along.
“Paranoia is a common symptom of dementia. I’ll have to contact Simon’s family. He’s no longer suited for independent living.”
“No . . . I mean, he said something about a pink slip, and I could tell it bothered you.”
“You could? Huh. Wasn’t it dark out?”
“Come on, Ruth. Open up. We’ve known each other for a long time.”
Ruth gnaws at her lower lip. “All right. I do have something to tell you. But it’ll have to wait until we get to my office. I don’t want anyone to hear.”
“There’s no one around.”
“Still . . .”
We walk the rest of the way in silence, and after we enter Ruth’s office, she takes a moment to lock the door.
“Afraid of Russian spies?” I ask, trying to lighten her mood.
She doesn’t crack a smile but heads to her chair and drops into her seat. “I want to show you something.” She reaches into her top drawer and hands me a half dozen pink Post-it Notes.
“Do these have some sort of special meaning?” I ask, carefully examining each one.
She shrugs. “Maybe a joke? A riddle? A threat? I’m not sure. They were found next to the bodies of deceased guests.”
I finger the slips of paper. “Do the dates have meaning?”
“They correspond to the day of death.”
“And the signatures?”
“Seem to imitate the handwriting of the deceased.”
I look up and study Ruth, trying to read her demeanor. “Were the deaths unusual?”
“No. All of the deceased were quite elderly and dealing with critical health issues. And each cause of death was consistent with preexisting conditions.”
“Have you reported this to anyone?”
She drops her gaze. “No. I haven’t.”
“Why not?”
Ruth takes a deep breath and exhales. “When the first few appeared, I was the genuine VP of operations. I reported directly to Bob. He didn’t like to be bothered by day-to-day problems, so he delegated most everything to me. And quite honestly, I thought we were dealing with some sort of prankster. A disgruntled employee looking for a way to stir up trouble at the campus. But the notes keep piling up, and now Simon mentions something about a pink slip . . .”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“What if it’s not?”
I nod. “So, who else knows about this?”
“Only Selena, I think.”
“Selena Ornelas?”
“Yes.”
I finger Kate’s envelope in my pocket, thinking Selena sure gets around. “So what do you want from me?”
Ruth’s hands tremble the slightest bit. “What if you did some investigating on the side?”
“What would I be looking for?”
“Someone trying to cause trouble by making ordinary deaths seem like something more sinister.”
“For what purpose?”
“A rumor like this could destroy Serenity’s reputation. Dampen or eliminate sales. Guests could break their contracts. Claim it’s not safe to live here. It could ruin us.”
“So, a form of industrial sabotage?”
“I guess you could say that.”
I nod, considering her request. “I don’t mind helping, but wouldn’t it be better to tell your boss about the situation?”
She shakes her head. “If Kai finds out my part in this, I know he’ll have me fired. And I can’t afford to lose this job. So, will you help me, please?”
Ruth hasn’t asked me for much over the years. It wouldn’t hurt me to help her now.
You sure? Tina asks. The bitch ruined our lives.
I tap my head a few times. “Sure. I’ll help you. Give me some time to come up with a plan.”
III. ENVY
Therefore, rid yourselves of all malice and all deceit, hypocrisy, envy, and slander of every kind. Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation.
—1 Peter 2:1–2
The Angel
I’m running out of willing disciples. It might be time for me to move on. Or we’ll need to expand the applicant pool. Give the Goodnight Club a boost.
I had a crossing planned for tomorrow. Martha Williams was all set to pass. Submitted a pink slip months ago naming the specific time and date. She wasn’t suffering from some painful illness. Just the downhill slide of age. She’d been a runway model in her youth. Graced several covers of Vogue.
Traveled the world with the jet set. Aspen. Ibiza. Gstaad. Swept through a series of affluent marriages, which allowed her to end her days in style.
Martha’s fading looks were her cancer, her most difficult cross to bear. Seems vain to me, but I’m not attractive, so who am I to judge? When the men stopped looking, the surgeries began, and there were one too many of those. The last one left her sniffing nonstop like an overbred pug-nosed dog. How I shivered when I received her pink slip, hoping her secret would top them all.
I had tucked away a few doses of epinephrine. It’s such a lovely way to go. The stimulant gives some minor palpitations before the heart muscle rebels and stops. I was counting down the hours for our appointment when Martha suddenly reneged. Seems she no longer desired her crossing after she snagged the love of a man.
I’ve only had one true crossing this season: pint-sized Mary Panini. Her secret more than disappointed—it was as boring as they come. She had barely tolerated her husband’s advances, was never interested in sex. Held her frigidness close to her heart and faked every encounter they ever had. In the end she, too, had hesitated, decided her life wasn’t all that bad. I gave her a little nudge. I do that now and then.
I’m pondering my cheerless future when my cell phone begins to hum. “Yes?”
“We’ve lost another disciple.” My ambassador’s voice is muffled and low.
“Who?”
“Harvey Higgins.”
My fingers nearly crush the phone. “How?”
“Heart attack.”
“You’re sure?”
“The EMTs confirmed.”
I take a hissing breath. The fattest of my disciples was scheduled to make his crossing on Monday of the coming week. I was picturing a juicy secret, a seven out of ten in my book. He’d been the pro at a local tennis club, and there were rumors he fondled the girls. The stories were squashed when he married an heiress and hired the most expensive lawyer in town. “Any sign of his pink slip?” I ask, trying to bring structure to my thoughts.
“Not yet. Should I search?”
“No need.” I don’t mind my pink slips living out and about. A strange quirk, I’m aware. But it satisfies some inner craving—a need to flaunt my craft. Of course I’ll have to control my urge to swagger if suspicion ever closes in.
“Anything else?”
I hesitate, an idea blooming with the gradualness of a budding rose. The destitutes must be in a bit of turmoil. I bet I could nudge some along. And who will care if their ranks grow thin? Not corporate, that’s for sure. “There is something,” I say, a smile carving lines in my face. “I’d like to do some outreach with the destitutes. They must be nervous about the eviction rumors. Perhaps we should compile a list of the more lucid. Meet me tomorrow night?”
“Same time and place?”
“Yes.” I set down my cell phone and brew a cup of coffee, which I savor with lifted spirits. God always supplies the answers if you listen close enough.
RUTH MOSBY
One
Friday, August 16
I wander alone inside a tunnel sunk deep into an ocean-bound cliff. Darkness coats me in a tingling fear; a rotten stench claims my nose. Crabs skitter along the walls, and eels slip between my feet. I turn a corner and hear the crash of the ocean. Escape is moments away. Then a shadow looms above me, its eyes glowing swampy red. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. The tunnel shakes with the weight of the beast, and I melt beneath its stare.
“Ruth?”
The morning sun streams into my office, bouncing off a mesh of melted scars. For a moment I think Ember’s my monster, but then I realize where I am.
“You were crying out,” she says, her good eye plagued with concern.
“I had a nightmare,” I reply, my head still groggy with sleep. “What time is it?”
“Eight.”
“Eight!” I jump up, head reeling. Dear God, my review’s in a little over an hour. I’ll barely have time to shower and change. “Did you happen to bring the keys to the rental?” I sweep my hand over my aching eyes.
“Yes, I saw your text.” She drops the keys on my desk. “I also brought you a bagel and coffee.”
“Thank you.” I grab my emergency makeup kit and change of clothes from the back closet. It’s not often I sleep at the office, but I like to be prepared. “I don’t have time for the bagel, but I’ll take that coffee.”
“You should eat,” she says. “I worry about you.”
“No need to worry; I’m fine.” I try to act like her words don’t touch me. But deep down, they really do. When was the last time anyone showed me the least bit of concern?
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.
“No, thank you. This is great.” In the past few months I’ve grown close to Ember in a coworker kind of way. She can’t be a real friend since I’m her supervisor and more than twenty years her senior. But I’ve come to enjoy our occasional chats, and she seems to feel the same way. I take a gulp of the bitter brew and then another, hoping it will clear away the fog. “One thing,” I say, recalling last night’s events. “How’s Simon Appleton today?”
“He was sleeping peacefully when I checked on him earlier this morning.”
“Good. Can you call Dr. Lawrence? Let him know we have an emergency? We need to get Simon a dementia diagnosis. I want him outfitted with a monitor today.”
She nods. “Of course. No problem.”
“Thanks.” I turn to leave, then pause. “Ember . . . ?”
“Yes?”
“I really appreciate your help.”
“Anytime.” She smiles at me, the good side of her face beaming. It’s amazing how she can work all night and still look as fresh as a rose.
I hurry out of my office and down the hallway, praying I don’t run into staff or guests. When I get outside, I spy Kai’s new BMW roaring down the roadway, so I dart behind a trash bin until he’s passed. I don’t want him to see me looking like this. I’ve lost enough power as it is.
I arrive at casita 3 and unlock the thick hardwood door. It’s one of five studios we rent to family and friends who visit from out of town. When empty, they can be used by senior staff. After stripping off my clothes, I step into the warmth of the shower and lean against the porcelain tiles. I stay that way for several moments until I remind myself of the time. Then I wash my hair and shave my legs before dialing in a blast of cold water to slap myself awake.
I’m dressed and applying my makeup when my cell phone begins to buzz. I’m about to send the caller to voice mail when Adam’s face flashes on the screen.
My son’s contact photo is from his freshman year of high school, his blond hair tousled like a child’s. His smile is warm, his eyes engaging. There’s none of the pallid thinness that defined him once drugs took over his life. My hand hovers over my cell, and I consider. He hasn’t called since before the wedding. Why would he reach out now?
A feeling of impending disaster shoots a load of fear through my veins. It brings back a time when every Adam phone call was a harbinger of doom. I can’t do this, I think. Not now. I’ll return his call when I feel more in control. Then if it’s the enabler he’s after, it’ll be easier to turn him down.
Getting back to work on my makeup, I scowl at my reflection in the mirror. I look tired. Exhausted. Worn out. A woman on the backside of life. I try smiling, and a decade is swept from my face, but then the lines slip back into place. Maybe I should try Botox or fillers. Have my face lasered or escape to a spa. If I want to ever date or keep my job, I can’t afford to look so old.
I finish applying my makeup as evenly as I can. Then I blow-dry my hair and adjust my black pantsuit, which is a little big on me now. In the past year I’ve dropped ten pounds, and now my cheekbones protrude like razors; my collarbones jut like knives. This look might have suited me a decade ago, but now it makes me feel old.
I glance at my Fitbit—9:20 a.m. I’ll have to hurry, or I’ll be late. I pack up my things, head back
to my office, and try to focus on my upcoming review. How will I respond to the negative feedback without ringing Kai’s skinny neck? Should I play it cool and not utter a word? Or tell him where he can go? Of course, the former is the answer if I want to keep my job.
I’m about to leave my office with my review in hand when Selena steps through the door, looking worried. “Good morning, ma’am,” she says.
“Good morning. I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry. Can we talk later?”
“This will only take a moment. I heard there was a code blue last night . . .”
“Yes. Simon Appleton. But we retrieved him without injury, and he’s resting in the infirmary. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
She raises a hand as if to block my way. “He’s not resting, ma’am.”
That stops me. “No?”
“He’s passed.”
“What?” My review slips from my fingers. “What do you mean ‘he’s passed’?”
“He’s dead.”
My pulse begins to race. “He was fine when we left him early this morning. And Ember checked in on him after that.”
She nods. “Nurse Milo said he wasn’t breathing when he found him. He tried CPR, but it was too late. It seems it was his heart.”
“That’s impossible.” Or is it? I have a sudden thought. “Did you find anything?”
“You mean . . .”
“A Post-it Note?”
“No. Not this time.”
I take several deep breaths. Relieved. I think. “All right. Follow protocol and inform the family.”
“Should I tell them about the code blue?”
I consider. “They’ll be dealing with more than enough. No need to concern them with their loved one’s final hours.”
She stares at me a moment and then nods and leaves the room.
Two
Friday, August 16
I’m seated on one of two orange pleather chairs that reside in Kai’s outer sanctum. Within a few weeks, Bob’s office suite has been transformed from old world comfort to industrial chic. I can’t imagine our guests spending much time here. Of course, that might be the point.
What She Never Said Page 9
