The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

“I’ll wait.”

  “There are some seats over there,” she pointed with an outstretched arm at some uncomfortable looking chairs lined up in front of the windows on the front of the building.

  “Mind if I walk around and see what I can see?”

  “Not at all. I can buzz the Nurse’s Station to see if someone can give you a tour.”

  “A tour?”

  “Yes. You know, show you around, answer some questions, and allow you to see the facility first hand. That way you can decide if this is the place for your loved one.”

  “I see. Oh, by all means, let’s do a tour.”

  She pushed some numbers on her phone pad and then spoke into what was likely an intercom. A few seconds later an older woman entered the lobby from behind some large double doors typical of hospitals and care facilities. Her name tag said Evelyn.

  Evelyn was calm and professional. She smiled, but not more than necessary. She carried a pleasant air with her, purposeful and controlled. Evelyn knew exactly what she was doing, without hesitation.

  “Evelyn Scruggs.” She offered to shake my hand. I accepted it. “I will be glad to answer any questions you may have about our facility or about our personnel. We have some of the finest health care professionals in the area. We seek to maintain the highest standards for operating a facility of this magnitude. We take our work seriously here. I think you will see that. If you will follow me,” she turned and walked through the large double doors from which she had entered moments ago. I followed her.

  After nearly fifteen minutes, I was aware that Peace Haven was indeed an efficiently run health care facility for people who needed assistance as they aged, as well as those who required round-the-clock nursing care. I was surprised by the appearance of the rooms she showed me, the hallways we walked up and down, and the lounges available for the residents.

  “Each of our residents meets with a doctor once a month, either their own personal physician or one of our two internists on call here. RN’s work four six-hour shifts, rotating every two weeks with LPN’s working eight hour shifts on three rotations. Auxiliary staff work the same time schedule as do the LPN’s. The office is open every day from 8-6. Doctors are on call and we have an emergency hotline for all residents. We care about these people, Miss Evans, and we do our best to provide whatever mental, emotional, and physical care is needed.”

  “Costs?” I asked finally when her PR medley was where I could interrupt.

  She handed me a slick folder which opened to multiple pamphlets and sheets filling both sides of the folder. A full-color, doctored-photograph of the building covered the front and back of the folder, while a larger-than-life photograph lined the inside of the folder. The inside photo was a group shot of the residents lined up in the garden area I had seen on the tour. They appeared to be happy.

  “You’ll find the answers to any and all of your questions about costs in that. If you would like to discuss more in detail and fill out an application for someone, then we can walk to my office and I would be happy to provide you with the specifics.”

  I couldn’t imagine that there would be more, but in a system run as efficiently as this, I knew enough about bureaucracies to know she was telling the truth. I figured I had enough data in the folder to provide me with hours of reading material. Besides that, I had Rogers to help me with the research I would soon be starting.

  “Not at this time, Evelyn. I appreciate your time and the tour. I will be in touch if my family decides to go this route.”

  Evelyn peered over the folder she had given me and pulled one of the brochures from the right hand side. She opened it without looking at it, pointed to a section which obviously she had memorized. Ever the salesman.

  “This might be helpful for you and your family as you consider the future for your loved-one. Some facts to consider.”

  She gave me her awarding winning smile.

  “Call us if we can assist you.”

  She offered her hand once more. We shook. She turned and disappeared through the double doors and left me standing in the large reception where it had first met twenty minutes earlier. Me and the folder.

  Holly was still on the phone when I passed her on my way out of the building. She grinned and waved. Friends forever.

  “I’m returning to Norfolk tomorrow. I need to do some more snooping.”

  “You just got here. Can’t you do more snooping around here?”

  “I’m sure I could, but I need to use some of my contacts in the police department and run some computer searches. I’ll return in a few days.”

  “And you learned nothing helpful from that sleazy nursing home?”

  “It’s not sleazy, and, yes, I did learn some helpful information. It appears to be a clean, efficiently run health care facility. They gave me an application for my loved one.”

  “Which loved one?”

  “I was thinking of my mother.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “That would be too late.”

  “Precisely. I’ll remain right here, thank you, ma’am.”

  “It’s always good to plan ahead.”

  “I still can use a shotgun, you know.”

  “I’ll try to bear that in mind when I come to retrieve you.”

  “Bring re-enforcements.” She wasn’t kidding.

  I fixed supper for us, which caused her to be in a better humor. My mother was a terrific cook. She could do it all. I could tell by her pantry and bare refrigerator that she really wasn’t into cooking like the old days when I was a kid.

  After Sam and I retrieved the necessary foods, spices, and other ingredients for my world renowned pasta primavera crowned with lemon-garlic chicken breast, Mother sat at the kitchen table more than willing to watch me prepare the meal.

  “That’s a lot of garlic,” she offered without my encouragement.

  “One teaspoon. You’ll survive.”

  “Did you find anything suspicious at that place?”

  “Nursing home place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not yet.”

  “So you are suspicious?”

  “I’m suspicious of everyone until I find out what happened.”

  “Don’t over-cook the pasta.”

  “I’m watching.” She would make a good guard dog.

  “I still cannot believe that you and that doctor found nothing unusual with Aunt Mildred. It wasn’t her time.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I’m psychic.”

  “Sure you are. When did this power develop?”

  “I’ve always been psychic. I knew your father was in trouble the day he died.”

  “That’s not psychic. That’s just being astute regarding the dangers of law officers.”

  “No, Clancy. I mean I knew that he was going to be killed.”

  “What are you saying?” She had my attention. This conversation had never come up before. She was talking about my one life-hero, my dad, and I was more than willing to listen.

  “I’m saying that I dreamed that he would be killed. That morning I had the strongest sensation of his impending doom, if you please.”

  “Did you say anything to him about that?”

  “Like he would have listened to me?”

  “True enough. But did you say anything to him?”

  “Yes, but he only smiled and kissed me like usual before he left.”

  “Why have you waited all these years to tell me this?”

  “What good would it have done after the fact?”

  “Point taken. And other times in your life, you have had these feelings?”

  “Yes. I keep them to myself. You won’t ever see a sign in front of the house for palm readings.”

  “I get that. But if it is real, it could be helpful, you know.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now that Aunt Mildred did not die of natural causes. You can bank on it.”

  Madam Rachel had spoken the words and now daughter Clancy was bound to prove he
r right. My mother the psychic. This was going to be interesting no matter what.

  7

  I called Rogers while Sam and I were en route to Norfolk from Clancyville just to give her some lead time in beginning the research into Peace Haven and the six people my mother had on her list of suspicious deaths.

  “Good morning, Dearie, nice of you to check in. Are you coming home anytime soon?”

  “Headed that way now.”

  “Good. It’s lonely here in the apartment.”

  “Didn’t know computers got lonely.”

  “I’m not like all the other computers, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “How could I not?”

  “I get lonely without you and the dog.”

  “Sam.”

  “I know his name, Sweetheart, but, after all, he is a dog. Am I wrong?”

  “Your logic is overwhelming.”

  “I knew you could see it my way. What’s on the table?”

  “My mother thinks that six people have died unnaturally in the last few months and she wants me to check into it. One of them was my Aunt Mildred.”

  “Give me the data and I’ll do your legwork”

  I read her the list of names from my mother, including Aunt Mildred.

  “And the name of the place where they all died?”

  “Peace Haven Nursing and Care Facility.”

  “In downtown Clancyville or suburban Clancyville?”

  “That would be the suburbs.”

  “I should have some info by the time you and the dog roll in here.”

  “Like death and taxes.”

  “Beg your pardon.”

  “Like death and taxes.”

  “I don’t know that idiom.”

  “I can count on you like death and taxes. Dependable. Relentless. Always there.”

  “Some day I might surprise you and not be here.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “I could crash.”

  “I’d have my memories.”

  “But I would have the data.”

  “Ever the romantic.”

  Sam slept most of the way across Virginia. I stopped a few times for potty breaks and food. Routine stops in light of my almost monthly trips for nearly three decades. I was a regular for two or three spots. A few of them had changed hands through the years. But it was comfortable to see some old faces along the way. Made the trip more enjoyable.

  I arrived at my apartment in Norfolk early afternoon. Sam seemed relieved to be home, although it was hard to tell with him. He had been nearly comatose along Highway 58 except for the bathroom and food breaks, and now was searching for a comfortable spot on the couch.

  “Found anything yet?”

  “Just the raw data. Nothing suspicious,” Rogers said.

  “Print it out or tell me?”

  “Quicker to tell you. Peace Haven is owned by the Sizemore Corporation. They specialize in nursing homes and assisted living facilities. Current count is thirty-three, and growing. They have five new buildings under construction across the eastern U.S. Ernest H. Sizemore, Jr. is the President of the Board of Directors. Ernest H. Sizemore, Sr. is the owner of the whole kit and caboodle.”

  “Kit and caboodle?”

  “I’m studying the idioms. Archaic, but accurate.”

  “Quite. What’s the net worth of the caboodle?”

  “Forty-seven million.”

  “Yikes. Quite a caboodle.”

  “Quite, as you say.”

  “Other facts?”

  “Squeaky clean so far.”

  “Keep digging.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  “Oh, where are the headquarters for the Sizemore Corporation?”

  “Richmond, Virginia.”

  “Check to see if Ernest, Jr. or Ernest, Sr. have any connections to Clancyville. Those names are foreign to anything I can recall of the county residents.”

  “Already on that.”

  8

  “Time to move.”

  “We may have a problem.”

  “Problems are to be solved. Explain it to me.”

  “Someone is asking questions about a recent death.”

  “Not the family, I take it.”

  “Related.”

  “Isn’t that expected?”

  “She also happens to be a private investigator.”

  “Interesting. Which patient?”

  “Mildred Evans.”

  “The last one.”

  “Yes. I warned you that she might not be the best candidate at the time.”

  “I heard your concerns. But I still make the decisions. You just do your job and let me do the thinking. What does she know?”

  “Halted the cremation and had a ME from Roanoke check the body.”

  “Autopsy?”

  She nodded affirmatively, and then said, “Results pending.”

  “They won’t find anything.”

  “I hope not.”

  “They won’t find anything,” he said sternly.

  “She still could be a problem.”

  “Not for long. What’s her name?”

  “Clancy Evans.”

  “Oh, yes. She grew up in Clancyville. Do you know where she lives now?”

  “Norfolk.”

  “She used to live here as I said. Bill Evans’ daughter, the sheriff who was killed years ago. Not important. Don’t you have some contacts in Norfolk?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on her for the time being. Keep me informed if she continues searching. I think we can make her go away.”

  “I was told she is good at what she does.”

  “I’m better at what I do. She will not be a problem. Now give me the next name on the list.”

  “Sarah Jones.”

  “Give me the details.”

  “Sarah Jones could be a problem.”

  “You’re thinking again.”

  “She’s connected to the Mildred Evans Keesee family.”

  “How so?”

  “Keesee was a sister-in-law to this detective’s mother. Sarah Jones worked for the detective’s mother.”

  “Worked?”

  “Maid, house-keeper, cook. Domestic stuff.”

  “Sarah Jones? She’s the African-American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Won’t be a problem. It’s the South.”

  “Still, we could skip –“

  “Still? What part of me making the decisions do you not get here? You just do the job I ask you to do. Line up the contacts. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  The woman started to leave.

  “You worry too much, you know.”

  She turned and stared for a brief moment. She wanted to say something but thought better of it. Better to leave him boiling slightly than to cause a full-blown eruption. He thinks he’s so damn smart and efficient … and morally superior. This is a mistake.

  On the way to her car she punched in the numbers on her cell phone and waited.

  “Yo?” the voice answered.

  “I have a little issue that needs some attention?”

  “Got a name?”

  “Clancy Evans.”

  There was a long pause on the other end.

  “Is this a difficult job for you?”

  “This one will cost you.”

  “I’ll pay you the usual amount.”

  “Naw. I’ll pass on this one.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The bitch is well connected.”

  “Give me a figure.”

  “Double.”

  “Too steep.”

  “Then Baby … get yo-self another boy. Double, or no can do.”

  “By the end of the week?”

  “Done. Wire me half up front.”

  “That’s not our usual deal.”

  “This one’s not usual in any way. You want her gone by week’s end, grease some skin.”

  “Love the poetry,” she said with absolutely no feeling in her voice.


  “Love the green,” he said with great passion.

  9

  It was something past eight o’clock and I was finishing my second cup of black coffee. Outside the sky was full of rain clouds, but nothing was falling yet. Norfolk weather. Rogers interrupted my early morning contemplation of various subjects.

  “Dead end on the Sizemore Corporation. They seem to be squeaky clean.”

  “Too clean?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Nothing on Ernest Sr. or Jr.?”

  “All seems legit.”

  “Financial stuff?”

  “They pay their taxes, their bills, and their employees. Nothing out of line.”

  “No claims filed against them?”

  “Normal stuff, nothing irregular.”

  “Disgruntled employees?”

  “One in Kansas City that was handled out of court. Two in Des Moines and one of those still pending. They seem to take care of those types of issues. No civil suits. No embezzlements. Nothing. Looks like a good place to invest money.”

  “You have money to invest.”

  “I’m just sayin’…”

  “Help me think of another angle.”

  “Maybe this is all local.”

  “In Clancyville?”

  “Why not? No criminals there since the 1970’s?”

  “Good point. But, whoever is doing this is very good at it.”

  “If anyone is doing anything. You have no real evidence.”

  “Point.”

  “Maybe your mother is just being herself. Aging and all that.”

  “Likely.”

  My world is quite unusual when I stop to consider that oftentimes a computer informs me of stuff I should already know. Like the condition of my mother. But since Rogers has been doing this for years now, I often take the uniqueness of my world for granted. I treat her more as an adversarial friend than some neatly wired hardware and software combination invented by my eccentric and wealthy uncle. And myself. Joint venture that proved quite successful.

  The phone rang and Rogers answered it. Her programmed voice was remarkably similar to mine. When she answers the phone, our voices are nearly impossible to distinguish. My uncle did that on purpose.

  “Clancy here,” Rogers lied.

  The voice on the other end was automatically placed on speaker phone so I could monitor the calls. Anytime I needed to take over a conversation I simply began talking. Usually Rogers would allow me that privilege. Usually.