“And you think the two people you heard killed him?”
“I think they snapped his neck. He didn’t fall anywhere.”
“What exactly did they say?”
“I couldn’t catch everything.” She smiled, apologetic. “In my defense, I am an old woman in the dementia unit. But I remember they talked about the solstice.”
Riga rubbed her temple. Talk of the solstice could mean they were interested in magic or astronomy. Or it could mean they had another murder planned for that date. The summer solstice was a time of high magic, and it was six days from today. Due to the energy of the sun, or the energy of so many people focusing magic on that day, it was a powerful time for ritual — both dark and light.
“After I heard that horrible crack, I had to do something. I snuck downstairs,” Mrs. Norton continued. “I’ve spent enough time in that place to track which vent goes to which room, roughly, and I could tell the speakers were in the basement. But the basement was locked.”
“That was brave of you.”
“Or foolish?” She sighed. “I have fewer and fewer chances left to take. I may as well take them when I can.”
“Who has a key to the basement?”
“The facilities manager, and I’d imagine the woman who runs the place. Others may have keys, I don’t know, but I did see the nurse who manages the dementia ward on the stairs. Unfortunately, she saw me and escorted me back to my room. Their names are all on that paper.”
Riga unfolded the paper, read the spidery writing. Morgan Verdun - administrator. Arwood Wilde – chief janitor. Kayley Jalonik - head nurse, dementia. “Morgan – is that a man or a woman?”
“Woman.”
“Well, thanks. My clients usually don’t bring me a list of suspects.”
Jack grabbed for the paper, and Riga pocketed it. He squealed with annoyance, and she bounced him in her arms.
“There were two people in that basement, and all it takes is one person with a key to unlock the door,” Mrs. Norton said. “Those are the three most likely to have gotten inside, but the other person could have been anyone.”
“Who do you think the other person might have been?” Riga asked.
“I couldn’t say. But whoever they were, I think they have something monstrous planned.”
In six days.
Riga looked to the bodyguard. “Ash—”
“No.” Ash folded his arms across his broad chest.
Jack grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged.
“Ow.” She pried her hair free. “But—”
“I’m personal protection, not your babysitter.”
Worried, Riga glanced at Mrs. Norton. The woman’s spine bent, curving into a near C, and she plucked fretfully at her skirt. “I’ve got to take her back.”
“One of the guards can take her.”
He was right. Ash wasn’t a babysitter. But she had to get out of here. Not only had she promised Mrs. Norton, but this was her first opportunity to work since the babies had been born. Had. To. Get. Out. “I said I’d take her, and it’s a case.”
“Not going to happen.”
Her chest tightened.
Jack fussed, as if sensing her frustration.
The glass door slid open, and Riga’s niece, Pen, stepped onto the deck. She yawned, stretching, arching her back. Her white, Winged Victory t-shirt rode up and her thin white cargo pants slid down, exposing her navel. Pen’s abs were toned and slender and, unlike Riga’s, did not have a horizontal scar beneath her bellybutton. Pen shook her tousled head, blinking. “Hi, guys. What’s going on?”
“You didn’t notice the alarm,” Riga said, toneless. An irrational burst of annoyance stiffened her neck. Her niece had come to live with them to train, to learn how to protect herself, and she hadn’t noticed the damn alarm?
“Alarm? I’m sorry. I was meditating with…” She glanced at Mrs. Norton. “With my teacher. Is everything all right?” She bit her lower lip. “I didn’t sense anything wrong.”
“It was a false alarm, a potential client,” Riga admitted. Perhaps Pen had had the right idea — she’d reacted correctly, and Riga had grabbed a gun and raced downstairs looking for blood. “I’m glad it didn’t interrupt your work. Pen, this is Mrs. Norton.”
Pen crossed the deck to the woman, and they shook hands. “Nice to meet you,” Pen said.
“Likewise, young lady. But Riga, I sense the wind is changing. I need to return.”
“Right,” Riga said. “Pen, can you watch the twins?”
“Sure.” She lifted Jack from Riga’s arms. “Emma’s not up yet?”
“No, but I’m sure she will be soon. Mrs. Norton, which facility are you in?”
“Sunset Towers.”
Riga’s brow furrowed. She should have guessed. The Towers was the closest facility to her home, but it was also seven miles away. “How did you get here?”
“I walked most of the way, and then…” She trailed off, her blue eyes clouding. “Where was I?”
“I’ll get my purse,” Riga said.
CHAPTER THREE
Riga settled the old woman in her Lincoln — an easy car for old ladies to enter and exit — and drove off, breathless. She was her own woman for the afternoon. The only errand she had to run today was for herself. Well, for Mrs. Norton, but that was a client. True, Mrs. Norton had only paid her a dollar. And true, Riga might have to return that dollar if there was nothing occult or paranormal happening at the rest home. But she was back as a metaphysical detective. A twinge of guilt niggled at her.
Nonsense.
She wasn’t abandoning her children. They were in good hands.
Passing through the heavy wooden gates, she waved to the guard and turned onto the highway. Pines whizzed past the glass, glimpses of the lake flashing between the trees. She rolled down the window. The air smelled divine — mountain clean and tangy with pine — and it played across her neck in a caress.
She grinned. “Mrs. Nor—”
The older woman stared ahead, expression vacant, mouth moving but no sound coming out.
“Mrs. Norton?” Riga asked more gently.
A shudder ran through the woman. “I don’t think I can hold on much longer. I’m sorry, but I may become… difficult.”
“It will be okay.” Riga slowed, rounding a curve and found herself trapped behind a green SUV, the last in a line of creeping vehicles. Probably vacationers, unused to the winding road. A child’s chubby arm waved a pig-tailed doll out the window.
Riga drummed her fingers on the wheel and glanced at her passenger.
“Where am I?” Mrs. Norton asked, her voice wheedling, nails on a chalkboard.
“We’re taking you home to Sunset Towers.”
“What is that?”
“It’s where you live, Mrs. Norton.”
“I don’t know where that is. I live in a house on… on… Where am I?”
“You’re in my car. I’m Riga Hayworth. I’m driving you home.” Her grip tightened on the wheel. At the rate traffic was crawling, it would take twice as long to get Mrs. Norton to the Towers.
“I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?”
“We’ll be there soon.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Riga Hayworth.”
“I don’t know you.” She shrank against the passenger door.
“Not well. But you asked me to take you home, and that’s where we’re going.” Riga’s stomach churned. The drive was taking too long. What if Mrs. Norton began to scream? What if she tried to leap from the car? She forced herself to relax, knowing her tension was born of fear. The only thing she could imagine worse than losing her mind, losing herself, would be losing her children.
Mrs. Norton sat, quiet for a long moment. “Where am I?”
Riga smiled. “You’re going home.”
“Home. I have a home. A lovely little house on the lake, with a garden. Wildflowers. There are always wildflowers in the summer. But who are you?”
Riga
’s responses were low, soothing, as if she were talking to a child. And suddenly she despised herself for being patronizing. This woman wasn’t a child and deserved respect.
“But where am I?”
Riga sighed. Finally, she turned off the highway and drove into the parking lot of a high rise set in a fold of the mountain. The patients on the top levels would have a view of the lake, and she wondered if they were sensible enough to enjoy it.
Riga parked. Slinging her oversized purse crossways over her shoulder, she helped Mrs. Norton out of the Lincoln.
She led the reluctant woman up the concrete steps and into the building. The smell hit Riga first – age and illness smothered by a liberal application of bleach and fresh, greenish paint. And then, sound: electronic alarms, the clash of metal trays, footsteps from other corridors echoing off the tiles. There must be residents on the first floor. How did they get any rest in the midst of this racket?
Riga settled Mrs. Norton in a plastic chair and crossed the dingy linoleum floor. Beside a closed, frosted window, she pressed a doorbell.
A smartly dressed, middle-aged blond wandered into the hallway and made a notation on her clipboard. The lanyard around her neck clicked against the board.
Riga rang the bell again. After a moment, the window slid open and a round-faced woman in a nurse’s uniform stared out at her.
On a wall behind the nurse played a TV, a weathered man in a cowboy hat thanking a reporter, and a quick cut to a silver-haired politician — a local senator running for president. “Laws must be obeyed,” he intoned.
The nurse adjusted her glasses. “May I help you?”
“I found one of your patients in my yard. She’s a little confused.” Riga turned, pointed. Mrs. Norton slumped, a bead of drool dangling from one lip, and Riga’s heart tightened. What must it be like to realize you were going mad? To feel long moments of lucidity punctuated by bewilderment? Riga didn’t want to imagine that horror.
The woman with the clipboard narrowed her eyes.
“One of ours?” The nurse heaved herself from her chair and leaned out the window.
“She said her name was Mrs. Norton,” Riga said.
The nurse’s brow furrowed. “Norton? I’ll have to check.” She thumped into her swivel chair and turned toward the computer on her desk, slid the window shut.
Clipboard Woman strode to Mrs. Norton and laid her board on a vacant chair. Kneeling before the older woman, she spoke in a low voice. A clean, white handkerchief appeared in her hand as if from thin air. She dabbed at the spittle dribbling down Mrs. Norton’s chin.
Riga walked to them.
Clipboard Woman rose. “What is she doing down here?” Her gray eyes flashed.
Riga raised her hands, pacifying. “I found her wandering. She told me she lived here.”
“She told you?” She shook her head. “This is Mrs. Norton. Thank you for bringing her back. I don’t understand how…?” She shook her head. Her voice hardened. “This shouldn’t have happened. Where did you find her? Exactly?”
Riga glanced at the lanyard. MESSENGER, it said in big letters. And beneath it in smaller letters: Senior Advocate. Nothing on it said Sunset Towers. “Do you work here?” Riga asked.
“No.” She smoothed the front of her neat, gray slacks. “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Angie Messenger.” She unclipped a business card from her clipboard and handed it to Riga. “I’m a senior advocate volunteer. We work in homes like these and act as advocates for the residents.” She glanced at Mrs. Norton. “Some of whom can’t speak for themselves. Please, what happened?”
Pocketing the card, Riga relented. “She showed up at my house, about seven miles from here.”
Angie pursed her lips, expression grim. “Good God. And since this was the closest facility, you assumed she belonged here?”
“No, she told me she was a patient in the dementia unit.”
“She told you?” Angie’s mouth sagged. “She was lucid?”
“At first. And then she seemed to get tired. She grew more and more confused.”
“But that’s not…” Angie shook her head. “Remarkable. Thank you for telling me.”
“Does this sort of thing happen often? Residents leaving the dementia unit and going for a walk?”
“No, and it shouldn’t happen at all. The highway is right outside. What if she’d been hit by a car? If she wandered as far as you say, it’s a miracle she’s safe.”
“Does Mrs. Norton have any family?”
Angie shook her head. “Sadly, no. Her husband lived here as well before he died. They were both in the assisted living wing until her dementia became too advanced. Then she was moved up to the seventh floor. Her husband passed not long thereafter.”
The elevator opened. A slender nurse in a yellow cardigan hurried out. Her head whipped back and forth, her gaze finally honing in on Mrs. Norton. She trotted toward them. “Mrs. Norton.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “You’re all right.” Gray flecked the woman’s pixie-cut hair.
“And you only just noticed she was gone?” One of Angie’s brows rose. “She was seven miles away. She must have been gone for hours.”
The nurse’s lips pressed together. “We’re short staffed today.”
“I see,” Angie said coldly.
The nurse grasped Mrs. Norton’s elbow. Her name tag read: KAYLEY JALONIK. One of Mrs. Norton’s suspects. “Come along, Mrs. Norton. Back to your room.”
Mrs. Norton clutched Riga’s hand. “I don’t like it here,” she said, her voice quavering. “I want to go home.”
“This is your home.” The nurse worked at prying Mrs. Norton’s hand free.
“It’s all right,” Riga said. “If it makes her more comfortable, I’ll walk with you to her room.”
The nurse opened her mouth.
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Angie said before the nurse could speak. “Clearly Mrs. Norton is distressed, but she’s got a certain degree of comfort around Ms., er…”
“Really, I’m happy to help.” Riga helped Mrs. Norton to her feet.
The nurse’s expression pinched. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm. We won’t have to go far.”
Riga let the nurse lead the way and studied the building. Corridors with long rows of open doors branched at right angles to each other. A painting crew worked in one of the hallways, changing the color from beige to green. Nurses hurried up and down the corridors. They swerved around racks of food trays, medical equipment, and patients clinging to IVs and gripping walkers. The walkers all had those damn tennis balls on their legs. Why hadn’t anyone thought of a more permanent solution?
Jalonik pressed the elevator’s up button.
“How old is this building?” Riga asked.
The doors opened, and the nurse stepped inside.
Riga followed, guiding Mrs. Norton.
The nurse shoved up the sleeves of her cardigan, exposing well-muscled forearms. “It was built in the seventies.”
And there clearly hadn’t been any serious upgrades since, beyond the occasional coat of swamp-green paint. Riga glanced at the panel of buttons. A keyhole was set beside the B, basement. No entrance via the elevator without a key.
“And it’s been operating as a senior care facility all this time?” Riga asked.
“Yes.”
“The entire building? All seven floors?”
The elevator groaned beneath their weight, straining upward.
Nurse Jalonik stared at the numbers above the doors. Four. Five. Six. “Yes.”
“I don’t like this,” Mrs. Norton said.
Neither did Riga.
The doors rattled open on the seventh floor. A nurses station stood opposite, a female nurse arguing on the phone behind the desk. The elevator flooded with the same stale, sickly odor as downstairs. But on the seventh floor the sound was worse, alarms and door slamming and foot rapping punctuated by a woman’s wails. Riga flinched.
“Here we are,” Nurse Ja
lonik said with false heartiness.
Mrs. Norton’s bony grip on Riga tightened.
Cautious, she stepped into the corridor. No patients wandered the hall, only one briskly moving male nurse.
“This way.” Jalonik motioned to the right. “Room seven-zero-two.”
They passed a half-closed door. A female nurse sat in a chair outside it and read a thriller.
Riga glanced at Jalonik.
“A private nurse,” she explained quickly. “She doesn’t work for us.”
Mrs. Norton’s room was two doors down from the elevator. That must have made Mrs. Norton’s escape easier. But if she’d used the elevator, she should have been spotted by someone at the nurses station. Or had she taken the stairs? She had walked to Riga’s house. She might have been able to navigate the seven flights.
Now Mrs. Norton’s feet dragged, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to put one before the other.
They plodded into the room. A black woman raised herself from one of the two beds. “You’re back.” She collapsed back onto the bed and closed her eyes. “I thought they’d killed you too.”
Nurse Jalonik shot Riga a tight smile. “Mrs. Washington. Dementia.”
The paint in this room looked new, a gentle blue. A watercolor of an Alpine meadow hung on the wall, alongside framed photos of a younger Mrs. Norton and her husband. A wedding shot, Mrs. Norton in a sweeping, lace gown on the arm of a handsome, laughing man in a tux. The couple smiling on a motorboat on Lake Tahoe. Posing with skis, arms looped around each other’s waists, their goggles high on their heads.
At the bed, Mrs. Norton released Riga’s hand and pressed her own into the bedspread, a crisp white weave with a raised, knot pattern. “I’m tired now.”
A bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the bedside table. The floor was linoleum, the furnishings simple, but an attempt had been made at warmth.
The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7) Page 2
