by Lori L. Lake
"How long have you lived here at Rivers' Edge, Mr. Callaghan?"
"Three years and more." He paused. "I came in midsummer after me wife passed, that's over three years back."
"Do you know who's lived here the longest?"
"Aye. Walter has been here since the place opened, nigh on five years ago. Agnes came after him, then me. Others have come and gone, but we three are the mainstays."
"I see. What would you think if we just sit here and talk, and I'll run the tape recorder? No muss, no fuss."
"If that pleases you, lass, I'm sure it'll be fine."
"It's been a tiring day, so let's be low-key."
She got out the recorder and set it between them. In a perfect world, she should take him into the dining room or the admin office and sit at a table where she could take notes. She should also read that long set of rights, but the prospect of getting them out meant she might lose his interest or goodwill. Her intuition said he'd be more forthcoming right here, in his comfortable corner of the sofa, without excessive bureaucracy.
She clicked on the recorder and laced her hands together. "You understand what happened here last night, right, Mr. Callaghan?"
"Mrs. Hoxley told us Callie Trimble died. At the noon meal she updated us to say Callie was murdered. Callie was a wee bit daft, but she was right pleasant to me. I'm sorry she's dead."
"Who do you think killed her?"
His eyes widened. "Why, as I said, I haven't got a thing to tell yer. I hadn't noticed her at all after dinner last night or at the sing-along. We were near the end when the alarm sounded and Miss Sherry and Miss Habibah tore off like startled hares. I spent the rest of the eve reading here and watching people scrabble for hours."
"Who was at the sing-along?"
He sat for a moment, thinking. "Miss Sherry, Miss Habibah, Agnes, Jade Perkins, and Willie Stepanek. Oh, and Nettie Volk. I almost forgot her. She's a sweet old hen, but she can't carry a tune, so she hums along."
"From the moment the sing-along started until you heard the alarm, did anyone leave the dining room?"
He sat still for a moment. "Now that I ponder a little, yes. Habibah left for a while."
"Do you know where she went?"
"I assume to the ladies' room."
"Was she gone long?"
"I don't recall. I believe that was when I talked them into playing an old Scot song, 'The Bonnie Banks O' Loch Lomond,' and I was intent on it."
"You don't recall her coming back while you were singing that?"
"No, she did not."
"Was it a short song, a lengthy one?"
"Why, lass, you don't know that old chestnut?"
"I vaguely recall it."
He cleared his throat and sang in a smooth bass voice:
O ye'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
He finished and looked her in the eye. "That's the chorus. The song is three verses and as many or more choruses. I always like singing that part as many times as they'll let me. Miss Sherry does a fine job harmonizing. Her voice is lovely, and the song brings back so many memories. Reminds me of my boyhood. I grew up in Argyll, close to the shores of Loch Lomond."
"And you came here to the U.S. when?"
"As a lad of sixteen. My father was an American Army man who fell in love with a wee nursing aide, fresh off the farm in Argyll. After the Battle of Somme when so many tens of thousands died—this is the Great War I'm speaking of here—Mother was sent to nurse in London. There she met my father. Do you know much about the Great War?"
"Some, sir."
"It's nigh on ninety years now since my parents met and married. My sister was born in 1917, and I, ten months later. My father was killed in January 1918. We didnae emigrate to America until the 1930s."
He suddenly shook himself. "I must apologize. I may have took meself a little off the beaten track, lass."
"We were talking about the sing-along."
"Ah, yes. I'm not able to say how long Habibah was gone. Could have been six or eight minutes, p'raps ten. I don't recall her moving about, but I do know she was with all of us when Eleanor pulled the alarm."
"That's helpful, Mr. Callaghan. What can you tell me about the staff?"
"They're very nice, most all of them."
"Almost all?"
"Hazel can be a wee bit crotchety at times, and Missy McCarver is a genuine terror if anything unusual turns up in her housekeeping rounds. But Miss Sherry and Miss Ernesta are especially kind to me. Oh, and Habibah's sister, Shani, she can't sing, but she surely can cut a rug."
"Dance, you mean?"
"Yes. That gal's got rhythm to burn."
"You've never had any difficulties with any of the staff—not the cooks or the aides or Mrs. Hoxley?"
"Oh, no. All in all, the staff here are delightful. They help make the days pass."
"Do the staff all get along with one another?"
"Well, to be honest, sometimes no. Missy and Hazel have been known to go a few rounds, but short of fisticuffs, mind you."
"What have they fought about?"
"I don't think they care two bits for one another, that's all. Sometimes it happens that way. Hazel is particular about Walter's things—that's Mr. Green, I mean. Missy doesn't always meet Hazel's timelines or instructions, and they've had more than one sprattle. Missy finally gave her a piece of her mind. For a minute I thought there'd be broken glass and flying flinders, but they stomped off in different directions, and that was that."
"When did this happen?"
He stroked his chin. "Oh...I'd say last Thanksgiving. Peaceful ever after. Now they don't speak to one another at all."
"Have you seen anything else recently that appeared odd or suspicious?"
"Can't say that I have, lass. I'm sorry. Nothing seems out of place."
Leo scooted forward and angled to face the old man. He had to be ninety years old, yet his face showed few lines, and his eyes were clear. His white hair was thinning, but for the most part, he looked like a man in his late sixties. She thought he must have gotten some excellent genes from his parents.
"Since you're here quite a bit, Mr. Callaghan, will you keep an eye on things, and if you see or hear anything strange, will you let me know?"
"Aye, that I will. The coppers asked the same."
"Here's my business card—let me write my cell phone number on the back just in case."
He accepted the card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. She thanked him, clicked off the tape recorder, and rose. He leaned forward and dragged himself up off the couch, unfolding himself as though the movement were painful. She was surprised to find that he was much taller than she, but it obviously hurt to stand up straight.
He took a deep breath and rolled his broad shoulders. "Arthritis. Got it in me neck and low back. Well, lass, I'll keep an eye on the place for you." He held out a hand, and she shook, feeling the strength in the clasp.
"Thanks for your help, Mr. Callaghan."
"My pleasure." Reaching behind him, he made a slow, laborious descent to the couch. She felt honored by his old-fashioned grace, but dismayed at his pain. As she walked away, she had to admit that he was the first real gentleman she'd encountered all day.
In the front office, Rowena Hoxley stood at the mailbox slots putting envelopes and magazines into the tenants' boxes.
"Oh, hullo," she said. Her voice was flat, her face puffy. She'd acquired even darker bags under her eyes since Leo had seen her earlier. "Are you shutting us down, or what?"
Leo was taken aback. So far she hadn't seen anything that required any drastic measures, but she couldn't make any promises. At this point, she wasn't sure what the proper procedures were. "So long as you and your staff keep a close eye on everything, I'll continue this investigation, and the facility will keep operating."
Hoxley crammed
the last of the mail into a slot and stepped back until she came in contact with the desk. She slumped down against it. "That's good. I don't know where these elderly people would go. It'd be a shame to put them out of their apartments."
"It's important that you step up security here, ma'am, especially after nightfall."
"Don't worry about that. I've already informed Silvia, Sherry, and Habibah that they'll be working overtime, and I've got Hazel on standby. Claire Ryerson from the main office will be coming over as well. We'll be sure that at least one aide is awake throughout the night to make regular rounds. We've got that covered. I'll make double-damn sure nothing happens to anyone else."
"Before I go, could you give me contact information for all staff and for the owner?"
Hoxley hefted herself away from the desk and dragged around to the other side. She opened a drawer and fished around. "I'd appreciate it if this information stayed confidential. I typed this up for the police, and you can have a copy, but my people's privacy should be respected." She handed over a couple sheets of paper. "Please shred it when you're through."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hoxley."
Leo checked her watch and was surprised to see that it was after four p.m. Rush hour would be revving up, and the longer she waited, the more time-consuming her trip from Minneapolis to Saint Paul would be. She stuffed the papers in her valise and bid farewell to Rowena Hoxley.
Back at the office, Leo found that Fred Baldur was signed out for the day. She assumed he worked until 4:30, so she wouldn't be able to talk to him until the morning. No great loss. She had a hunch he wouldn't be much help anyway.
She slipped into her assigned cubicle—actually, Bradley Rayburn's cubicle. He'd tacked pictures of his family on the cubicle's cloth walls, which she left alone. She picked up a professional portrait of his wife in a stand-up frame on the corner of the desk and put it in the top desk drawer along with a homemade clay paperclip holder, coffee cup, dog-eared paperback mystery, and an opened pack of Wintergreen mints, leaving only a computer and keyboard, phone, inbox, blotter, a jar full of pens and pencils, a stapler, and a tape dispenser. Even starting from scratch in her work area, she didn't figure she'd ever feel comfortable in this sterile environment. She preferred the camaraderie of her cop shop. Who would she talk shop with here? Fred Baldur? The thought gave her the willies. If she wasn't so irritated, she thought she'd shudder.
Leo sat at the desk and relaxed for the first time in hours. All around, people were packing up for the day, saying goodbyes. She got out the agency Standard Ops Procedure manual and skimmed through various sections. After half an hour, with eyes glazed over, she hadn't learned anything helpful. For an SOP manual, it was heavy on instructions for forms completion and remarkably light on actual investigative procedures.
What the hell kind of situation had she gotten herself into? She'd like to take a club to the range master and her commander as well. The whole situation was maddening, and she had half a mind to appeal to the chief. At the very least, she should be riding a desk and doing administrative work at the downtown police department, not sitting here trying to make sense of a bunch of moronic bureaucratic legalese. How could she stand three months of this?
She'd already pissed off the cops on the case; Hoxley at Rivers' Edge was less than helpful; and she felt she'd made little headway in figuring out anything about the murder. How deep was she supposed to delve? Flanagan had made it clear that he and DeWitt completely controlled the murder investigation, but that didn't help her much. How could she tell if Rivers' Edge was safe for anyone without uncovering the murderer? For all she knew, the killer could be wandering the halls at Rivers' Edge this very minute. What if he killed again tonight or tomorrow?
In her experience, most assaults and murders in people's homes were committed by known elements—a family member, friend, or a neighbor. But who would kill an old lady like Callie Trimble? Did one of the staff or tenants have it in for the old woman? If it was an inside job, Leo definitely needed more background on the victim and everyone who'd been at Rivers' Edge the night before. But was it possible that someone came in over the wall? A random killing by a stranger?
Highly unlikely. For her entire career, she couldn't recall a single random in-home homicide that wasn't robbery-related. Someone killed Callie Trimble for a reason.
Callie's family might have positive or negative reasons. On the positive side, there was mercy killing. Was Callie that far gone mentally that someone in the family couldn't bear to see her suffer and decided to put her out of her misery?
On the negative side, the usual motives needed review: uncontrolled anger, revenge, money issues, an accident covered up.
None of that rang true. She had a hard time believing that Eleanor had anything to do with it. What about Ted? Sons had been known to kill their mothers for any number of reasons. That avenue bore examination.
Whoever the killer was, he had to possess a fair amount of strength. Eleanor said Callie was a good-sized gal, so it was unlikely that a dainty, tiny person could have done it. But anyone with enough coordination, power, and persistence could have.
If not a family member, then who and why? Could a fellow resident or aide have gotten so angry that suffocating an elderly woman was the result? Or could there be a cover-up? Did Callie see something she shouldn't have? She remembered a case in Saint Paul a few years earlier where an orderly at a hospital had been sexually molesting unconscious patients. He tried to strangle a nurse who caught him at it. Luckily, she'd been a lot more conscious than his poor victims and had fought him off.
So many loose ends. Leo never liked loose ends. One of the reasons she preferred working patrol was that when she and her officers came upon a scene, they secured it, dealt with the people involved, gathered evidence to assist detectives and prosecutors, and moved on. She enjoyed hearing how the prosecutions turned out, especially if they were successful, but her role didn't require her to dig through seven zillion leads. Others were responsible for making sense of the evidence and fashioning a case, not the patrol officers.
She'd always pictured herself working in that chain of command like her foster father, Dad Wallace, had. As a Saint Paul cop for nearly four decades, he'd been so proud when she made sergeant, and now her goal was to remain a supervising sergeant for a long time. All those young cops coming up through field training deserved to be taught the very best skills. She loved being able to instill good habits and practices. Perhaps she'd get into investigations later and achieve commander status when she was older. Much older. Crap, she thought. How derailed will I be with this shooting quals problem hanging over my head?
She couldn't do anything about that now, much as she wanted to. All she could focus on were the loose ends from the homicide. First thing in the morning, she needed to interview Martin Rivers, the owner of the apartments. Maybe he would give her something useful. She pulled out the information Rowena Hoxley had provided and reached for the telephone.
Chapter Seven
WEDNESDAY MORNING LEO left her house in plenty of time, fought the rush-hour traffic into Saint Paul, and made it to the DHS building a few minutes before eight only to find that Fred Baldur had called in sick. His stock with her plummeted farther. She tried to check in with Ralph Sorenson but was told the director had gone to the state capitol for a meeting. So much for accountability. She was on her own today.
She drove to Rivers' headquarters in Plymouth and hurried into a square, one-story brick building across the street from another independent living apartment called Rivers' Rock, which looked exactly like Rivers' Edge except for the sign on the front.
Inside the headquarters, the waiting area to the left was furnished with dark brown leather couches and chairs and surrounded with honey-colored wood paneling. A pair of framed pictures hung on the wall. In one, a flight of ducks flapped above a rushing river. In the other, a deer loped along the edge of a forest. Definitely a man's office, Leo thought, and a sportsman. The navy-blue carpet showed the
undisturbed marks of a recent vacuuming, and she marched across it, leaving footprints in the nap. It was so quiet, she wondered whether anyone was in.
Behind the enclosed reception counter, the office was like a freestanding little building with an open door in the back. Leo thought of it as the business version of a shotgun shack. On either side, hallways led to the back of the building, but she couldn't see very far down either hall.
She moved to the reception counter, set down her valise, and put her elbows on the dark-blue laminated surface. She didn't see a bell to summon anyone, so she called out, "Hello, anybody here?"
A chair scraped back, and a shapely woman appeared in the doorway. Either the administrative office had a rear entrance, or the vacuuming had been done after this lady arrived. Her every step left a footprint behind her.
"May I help you?" The woman smiled, showing even, white teeth and twinkling gray-green eyes. In her mid-thirties, she was fit and attractive, and Leo admired her deep tan. She wore a green-and-white-striped dress with a gold belt accentuating her slim waist. The rings on her fingers flashed gold and diamond.
"I have an appointment to see Mr. Rivers."
"Leona Reese?"
"That's me."
"I'm Claire Ryerson, one of Mr. Rivers' personal assistants."
"He has more than one assistant?"
"Yes. There are two of us, but Iris—Iris Fullerton—has been on vacation the last two weeks. She'll be back next week, and I can take my end-of-summer holiday."
"I'm a bit early. Shall I wait?"
"Mr. Rivers is in, so it's no problem at all that you've arrived now. In fact, it will be easier for him to stay on schedule since he's got a full calendar today. Let me see if he's ready." She disappeared back into her office.
Leo gazed up at a four-by-six-foot display on the wall ahead of her. An onyx frame was speckled with silver flakes, and the raised black lettering on a shiny gold background looked classy.
Rivers' Independent Living Apartments, Inc.
