Mrs. Phipps took the question seriously. “We’d planned to fly back, but Lady Higganbotham, who owns the kennel, discouraged us. She said the pressurized cabin in a plane could result in ear infections in a wee pup. Fortunately, we were able to book passage on the QE II. Lady Higganbotham also mentioned that Raul’s first few days with his new owners are a time of bonding. We shouldn’t be separated for even a minute.
“On the ship, we didn’t want to expose him to the passengers in the dining room so we took all our meals in our stateroom.” In a confidential tone she added, “One must commit oneself.”
“He must be a very contented dog,” I said, examining the tiny mutt whose skin was the color of wet clay. It isn’t fair, I thought. Why didn’t the Phippses adopt me? I never get ear infections or require climate control.
Instead of agreeing that Raul was indeed contented, Mrs. Phipps pressed him closer. I was afraid the thing would suffocate, but he didn’t protest. In fact, Raul was strangely passive. “At least he’s not noisy,” I said, “like some small breeds.”
When Mrs. Phipps spoke, her voice wavered. “This is off the record, Miss McNichols. Raul, you see, is clinically depressed.”
Surprised, I murmured an apology as she continued. “I became aware of the change in him about three weeks ago. He became listless. When Lester came home from the office, Raul didn’t run to the door and do his little dance.”
“Dance?” I asked.
With that she sat up and bounced on the sofa, wrists bent and hands flapping up and down. “Yip! Yip! Yip!” she barked in a high-pitched tone. It was a good imitation of a dancing Hairless Peruvian.
She continued. “As the days passed, Raul got worse. He started to tinkle on the legs of the furniture. Finally, when he did toity in Lester’s slippers, we made an appointment at the Angell Memorial Hospital in Boston. Their doctors gave Raul a thorough examination and said the problem wasn’t physical, it was behavioral.
“We wondered how this could be. We’ve treated Raul like our own child. We didn’t know where to turn until someone suggested Dr. Klinger. At that point we’d seen so many specialists—”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Phipps. You contacted Dr. Klinger?”
“For a consultation.” She placed a hand on my arm. “Please don’t mention any of this in your story.”
“Of course I won’t. I asked because I’m surprised to learn that Dr. Klinger treated dogs.”
“She didn’t actually engage in therapy. She observed what she called the family dynamic to determine if there was anything in our interactions that was upsetting Raul.”
“And did Dr. Klinger learn anything?”
“Before she died—so tragic, that was—she’d told us that a sudden change in Raul’s environment was likely responsible. The only change I could think of was the decorating job in the solarium. We had new wallpaper and slipcovers made. Yet after we returned the room to its original state, Raul still remained depressed.” She gazed sadly at the sleeping dog.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Phipps. Do you mean to say you had the solarium decorated and then you had it undecorated, changed back to the original state?”
She nodded, the loose skin under her eyes quivering. “It didn’t help. The poor baby still moped pitifully.”
I couldn’t help staring. “Mrs. Phipps, you really love that dog.”
“Oh, we do.”
I studied Raul, who now resembled a sleeping cactus plant. “Let me ask you, as Raul’s caregiver, what is your gut feeling?”
She looked startled. “What do you mean?”
“It’s like the bond among family members. You know when something’s wrong.”
She averted her eyes. “Odd that you should mention that. I do have a hunch, but I haven’t mentioned it to Lester. Although my husband is a high-powered businessman, he’s also extremely tenderhearted. If I told him about my hunch, he’d feel terribly guilty.”
“Guilty about what?”
She sighed. “About a month ago Lester attended a tile convention in Texas. When he got back we had a dinner party, inviting some of our oldest friends. As a matter of fact, we had cocktails right here in the library.
“After an hour or so, Lester excused himself and went upstairs. When he returned, he was wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat he’d brought back from his trip. It was quite amusing, and everyone laughed at the sight. Raul, who was sleeping under that chair, woke up. When he saw Lester in that hat, he froze. It was eerie. Little Raul seemed to turn to stone. Of course, Lester immediately removed the hat and we continued with the party. Yet from that moment Raul developed a haunted look.”
“Did you mention this to Dr. Klinger?”
“I did without telling my husband. Dr. Klinger seemed to agree that it could have been traumatic for Raul to awaken and see Daddy, I mean Lester, looking so strange. Raul is sensitive. He comes from an old, aristocratic line. Dr. Klinger said he may also have a fear of men in hats. Many breeds do.”
“Now that you have your suspicions, what are you going to do?”
She rested her cheek on top of Raul’s head. A tear slid from her eye. “I don’t know, Miss McNichols, I just don’t know.”
Lunchtime found me picking alfalfa sprouts from my computer keyboard. I’d bought a veggie wrap from Mega Mug, a downtown hole in the wall whose only attraction is its proximity to the office. As I grappled with the soggy, loose wrap, bits of mushroom, tomato, peppers and sprouts rained down on my keyboard.
Seeing my dilemma, Stewart asked, “Shall I hose you down?”
I chucked the remainder in the wastebasket. “That’s the last time I go to Mega Mug for anything but coffee.”
“You should bring something from home,” he said. “I brought a thermos of lentil soup that saved me four dollars.”
“Maybe in my next lifetime I will.”
“Just trying to be helpful,” he said in a prissy tone.
I wiped wet, sticky hands on the restaurant’s thin napkins. They shredded on contact. “Don’t mind me, Stew. I’m just mad I went back there after swearing I’d never step foot in that place again. I always expect it to improve, but it never does. Now they hired some pea-brained kid who’s not too tightly wrapped himself.”
“Young people have to get work experience somewhere,” he said.
An appropriate response from a trust fund recipient who’s never worked full-time in his life. “I wish they’d get some experience in manners,” I said. “Nothing major, just a simple thank you. And while I’m on the subject, do these kids have something against smiling? Is that not a cool thing to do?”
Stew chuckled. “You’re showing your age, Rose.”
Immediately, I reached in the wastebasket for my discarded sandwich to throw at Stewart’s head. While I was doing this my phone rang, thus sparing him. It was Betty Ann. “What are you doing right now?” she asked. No greeting, no preliminaries.
“Picking sprouts from my keyboard. What’s up?”
“Can you come over here? I’m at work, and I need to see you.” She sounded like she was talking through clenched teeth.
“I can kill two birds with one stone. I was planning to interview one of your residents, Mabel Snodgrass. She’ll be one hundred three years old at the end of the week, and—”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Fine,” I said, although she’d hung up. I grabbed my bag and said to Stewart’s back, “Tell Yvonne I’ll be at Green Pastures Nursing Home if she needs to reach me.”
“I heard. You’re meeting Betty Ann and interviewing a hundred-and-three-year-old lady. Do me a favor. Let me know if there are any good-looking nurses over there.”
“You thinking of settling down?” I sized up the thin, greasy hair, the loafers bound with duct tape.
He shrugged. “Providing she’s young, good-looking, and can discuss the issues without sounding like a bimbo.”
“I’ll let you know,” I promised. Stewart should add another requirement in his search for the perfect woman: embal
med. No living woman would last two days with Stew. Although he’s got an encyclopedic knowledge of sports, he’s totally lacking in social skills.
I found a parking space in the visitors’ section under the big white sign reading Green Pastures Nursing & Retirement Home. Printed in italics below that was their motto, where dreams come true. Betty Ann is fond of adding, “if you dream of being drugged, diapered, and permanently detained.” Although she loves working with the elderly, B.A. laments the modern nursing home. Often, usually after her third drink, she launches into her dream of someday running her own establishment.
“I’ll buy a big old house and put in tile floors so we won’t have to worry about spills. We’ll have a couple of cats, maybe a dog. And instead of vegetating in front of the TV all day, the residents will be outside, helping in the garden. We’ll raise our own vegetables, grow our own food. Nothing will be processed or precooked. Some can help inside doing housework. It will be like a family where everyone has chores.
“At the end of the day they’ll be so tired they won’t need sleeping pills. In fact, they won’t need half the medications the average patient takes.”
“You know what?” I say. “My dad will be the first person to sign up for your nursing home.”
She smiles, though before the night is through her optimism fades. “Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t last a week in the business. The nitpickers in public health, the license boards, will descend with a checklist. Have I recorded the residents’ urine output? Their daily weight? Their blood pressure?
“The state will ask where the elevator and the automated doors are. Public Health will check the refrigerator, cupboards and bathrooms. One wet mop and I’ll be written up for violations I never heard of.” Eventually, she becomes wistful. “I could create such a wonderful environment, but in the end the nitpickers would win.”
I paused outside the door with its black lacquered sign reading Betty Ann Zagrobski, Director of Activities. Through the tiny window I spotted her two assistants setting up tables stacked with bingo cards. I stuck my head in the doorway. “Is Betty Ann around?”
“She’s in the break room having lunch,” the younger woman said.
Where else? I thought, heading down the long hallway whose ambiance, if that’s the appropriate word for linoleum tiles and institutional green walls, was a marked contrast to the residents’ living areas. They had flossed wallpaper, chandeliers, and pastel carpeting, all the better to spill upon. As a result, Green Pastures Nursing Home exuded all the warmth of a suburban hotel while its rates doubled those of The Ritz.
I found Betty Ann hunched over a submarine sandwich that dripped oil. At a nearby table, a group of nurses’ aides carried on a lively conversation in Spanish. They seemed to be the only people in the place having fun. I approached and stood over Betty Ann. “What’s that smell?”
“Rosie, you scared me. What smell?”
I pointed to the oversized sandwich. “I smelled it all the way down the hall.”
“It’s probably oregano. Stella makes the best fried eggplant subs.” She picked up a plastic knife. “Let me give you half. It’s loaded with fiber.”
“No, thanks. Fiber is all my dad talks about.” I sat down. “Why are old people so bowel obsessed?”
“Don’t knock it. Bowels are my bread and butter.”
I winced. “Please. Not at lunch.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
I got up and surveyed the stainless steel vending machines bordering the room. Finally, I inserted coins into a slot. An ice cream sandwich, smaller than the one depicted in the display, fell into the trough. I removed the wrapper and bit into a frozen disk that resembled, and tasted like, a hockey puck.
At the table, I said, “You seem in better spirits than you sounded on the phone.”
“Probably because I’ve had lunch.” With her fork she scooped up the remaining bits of minced green peppers and onions from the paper plate. “But eventually, I have to face the music.”
“Which is?”
She glanced at her watch. “Which is cigarette time. Every day after lunch around this time, I look forward to a smoke. There’s a group that gathers outside the storage shed. One guy’s from the laundry department, a couple are from nursing, and one’s from accounting. Every day, rain or shine, we gather to smoke.” She glanced at the window. “They’re probably there now wondering what’s keeping me.”
“Betty Ann, this time is different. This time you called me because you want to change. Isn’t that right?”
She nodded, gloomy. “Calling you, I reinforced the commitment I made to Tiny. Instead of smoking, I said I’d walk after lunch.” She crumpled her napkin, tossing it on the table. “But you know the saying, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”
I licked the last of the ice cream sandwich from my fingers and jumped up. “In that case, I think we’d better start walking.”
Betty Ann sighed and slowly got to her feet while I gathered up the trash, throwing it in a big corner barrel. When I returned to the table, she was staring fixedly at a man sitting across the room. “Betty Ann?” When she didn’t respond, I followed her gaze and spotted the pack of Marlboros in the breast pocket of his olive uniform. I placed my hand on her arm. “Is that your brand?”
“Right now, everything’s my brand,” she said, her voice bleak.
“Come on,” I said, leading her away. Like a zombie she followed me out of the room. We stood at the door overlooking the parking lot. “Which way do you want to go?”
She didn’t hear me. “See over there to the left?” She pointed beyond a row of vans. “Behind those dogwoods is where the shed is. They’ll be there now, waiting.” She inhaled deeply. “Holy crap, I can smell the smoke.”
“Then we’ll go this way,” I said, taking her arm and heading to the right. Before long we were off the nursing home property and in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. It was a new subdivision of brightly colored Victorian style houses. We followed a freshly paved sidewalk bordered in granite.
If I had assumed that B.A. would trudge along dispiritedly, I was wrong. She soon picked up speed, swinging her arms forcefully. Seconds later she broke away, silently striding ahead. I didn’t attempt to keep up, figuring she wanted to work out her frustrations. When she increased her speed, going so fast I feared she’d walk right out of her shoes, I called to her, “Betty Ann, wait!”
Head down, arms pumping, B.A. charged down the street like King Kong on the loose. Then as quickly as she started, she stopped, allowing me to catch up. We fell into an easy stride. I patted her back. “Just think, you’re out walking while those poor souls are back at the shed barbecuing their lungs.”
“It’s only one victory. The war rages on.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m saying I know better. When the craving hits, you don’t care about promises. You forget everything. You’ll even pick up a butt from the street, yellow with dog pee.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“I would, if I hadn’t had a cigarette in awhile.” She closed her eyes. “It would be the finest smoke of my life.”
Her face had such a look of rapture, I had to get her mind off smoking. “Guess who I’ll be interviewing on Wednesday?”
“Who?”
“Veronica Klinger. I’m invited to Chestnut Hill for tea.”
“Lucky you, tea with the dragon lady. Be careful she doesn’t poison you.”
“By the way, how well did you know Dr. Klinger?”
“Not much. She came to the nursing home from time to time for psych evals.”
“What’s that about?”
“When someone starts acting gaga, administration needs an evaluation from a shrink. It’s standard procedure even if the resident is ninety-eight years old. Everything is documented at a nursing home. You get a pimple on your butt, it goes in your chart.”
“But isn’t it natural at ninety-eight to get a little gaga?”
�
�Not necessarily. In any case, they have to rule out physical causes first. If that checks out okay, you need a psych eval. The shrink comes in, asks a few questions like ‘Who’s the President?’ and then sends a bill for four hundred fifty dollars.”
“So Dr. Klinger did your evaluations?”
“She did. She had a way of addressing the residents as if they were school kids and she was the teacher. You know how she enunciated every word? ‘Can you tell me what holiday we celebrate in July?’”
It was a pretty good imitation. “Did the residents respond to her?”
“Most were so happy to have company, they’d welcome Jeffrey Dalmer. By the way, I don’t approve of how Mr. Guskin, our Administrator, is handling the murder. He’s decided to not tell the residents. He’s cut out any references in the newspapers.”
“If it’s any consolation Chief Alfano is releasing the name of a suspect. It’s some vagrant who was hanging out at the park. Apparently, Spencer Farley caught him once outside Dr. Klinger’s office.”
“Humph. That’s no vagrant. Don’t you know who they’re talking about?” She flashed me a Cheshire Cat smile.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Betty Ann, do you know something about the murder that I don’t?”
“Hah! You should pay me for all the juicy tidbits I provide.”
“How about I buy you a drink instead? Now tell me right now.”
“Don’t get your undies in a twist. Do you remember Rusty Favazza?”
“From high school? The football player?”
“The same. That so-called vagrant is none other than Granite Cove’s boy hero.”
The image of the limping man carrying a case of beer on his shoulder suddenly flashed in my mind. “I think I saw him walking on Main Street.” I gave her a brief description.
“That’s Rusty.”
“Unbelievable.” It was hard to connect the disheveled stranger to the former handsome high school athlete. Back then, Rusty Favazza was our version of the New England Patriots’ Tom Brady. His performance with the Granite Cove Lobstermen resulted in a full scholarship to Boston College. Rusty was a god, idolized by everyone, particularly women. “How in the world is Rusty connected with Dr. Klinger?”
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 9
