by T. R. Ragan
CHAPTER THIRTY
Gus had told Kitally to give him ten minutes before heading for the file room. That was exactly how much time passed before Gus walked by. Kitally and Betty stood in the doorway of Betty’s room and watched him.
He was pushing the woman in the wheelchair, the one who liked to caw like a bird, down the middle of the wide corridor. She was in fine voice today.
Behind them trailed a rising cacophony.
Not only had Gus rounded up the bird lady, he had gathered more than a dozen residents, all of them squawking, banging forks against plates, and stomping canes against the floors and walls like a parade accompanied by a marching band. One lady used candleholders as drumsticks. A tall fellow kept leaning over and grabbing handfuls of all the women’s butts. Some liked it and some didn’t, but the old man didn’t seem to care either way. He was having the time of his life.
Bringing up the rear was a hunched-over woman with an amazingly loud voice who kept shouting, “No more pudding! We want cake! We want cake!”
Betty shook her head. “She doesn’t like cake, either, but she always wants whatever they don’t give her.”
“Which way to the file room?” Kitally asked.
Betty looked both ways and then took off in the opposite direction Gus and his posse had gone. The woman was spry, and Kitally had to hurry to keep close to her side. Whenever someone in a green smock ran past, she pretended to be helping Betty along, but that wasn’t easy considering the woman didn’t need any help.
“Damn,” Betty muttered, pulling back from peering around a corner. “The file room is down that hallway. But it looks like Dixie is guarding the post.”
Kitally moved ahead of her. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Hello,” Dixie said as they approached the nurses’ office. “Glad to see you have your badge on this time.”
Betty brightened. “I told you she was a good girl.”
“I don’t know if someone else has taken care of it,” Kitally said, “and I hate to be a tattletale, but I just saw Cecil sneak out through the back door. The one that leads right out to the parking lot.”
“Oh, lord.” Dixie huffed past them. “Thanks for telling me,” she called back, then disappeared around the corner.
“It worked,” Kitally said before she realized Betty had already grabbed the file room key from the nurses’ office and was making her way down the hall with it. She had the file room open and had disappeared inside before Kitally could catch up.
“Here,” she said when Kitally entered the room. “Put the key back on the little hook just inside the nurses’ office door and then hurry back.”
Kitally did as she said. The file room was exactly that—a twelve-by-twelve room with wall-to-wall filing cabinets. According to Betty, they were looking for any document or file with the names of any of five residents she believed had died under suspicious circumstances: Helsie Valentine, Dennis Turner, Jade Ross, Mary Branham, and Sandy Hutchins.
Kitally came up with something almost immediately, in a basket labeled “To Be Filed” atop the nearest file cabinet. “Well, here’s something strange,” she said.
“What is it?”
“This is a bill for Helsie Valentine, but the date stamped on the form is for just two days ago. Shady Oaks charged over three hundred dollars for bringing Helsie special meals and delivering packages, and another five hundred dollars for administering medication.”
Betty scampered her way and hovered over her. “See if you can find anything on Marty Balch.”
Kitally dug through the basket. “Yep, here it is. There’s a file for Marty. He was charged for a bed, food, and medication. When did Marty pass away?”
“Nine months ago,” Betty said.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Absolutely,” Betty said. “They’re killing Shady Oaks residents and then filling the beds and collecting double the money.”
Betty nudged Kitally to the side and rifled through the files herself. She gasped when she pulled out a file.
“What is it?”
“Lisa Coriell. She died three years ago.”
“This has been going on for a while.”
They both froze when they heard a voice. It sounded as if Dixie was on the phone.
“Dixie must have returned.”
Kitally looked at Betty. “What are we going to do?”
“Put this file inside your pants, and button your sweater up.”
There was no time to question the idea. Kitally did as she said.
Betty gestured toward the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Kitally locked the door from the inside and pulled it shut after them.
“Act natural,” Betty whispered. “Tell Dixie I kept insisting the bathroom was this way.”
The minute Dixie noticed them coming up the hallway, she marched up to them and grabbed hold of Kitally’s arm.
“Ouch. What are you doing?”
“That’s what I want to know. I’m taking you straight to the director. Betty Ackley hasn’t been any trouble for us until you started coming around.”
“Betty told me there was a bathroom down the hall,” Kitally said in a firm voice. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
A sniffling and then a mewing cry sounded as Betty began to weep. It was the most pitiful sound Kitally had ever heard. She yanked her arm out of the woman’s grasp and turned toward Betty. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to go to the bathroom. Why won’t any of you take me to the bathroom?”
There was a distinct trickling noise, and something splashed against Kitally’s ankle.
Dixie and Kitally looked down and saw a yellow puddle spreading on the tile between Betty’s feet.
“Look what you’ve done,” Kitally said. “You scared her. If you don’t let me take care of Betty and get her cleaned up and back to her room, I’m going straight to the police to report you, along with the rest of the staffers in this place!”
“You take her back to her room and clean her up,” Dixie said through clenched teeth, “but if I see you inside Shady Oaks again, I’m going to make sure you get thrown out of here. Do we understand each other?”
“That’s fine. But you better be ready to do just that, because I’ll be checking on Betty from here on out.”
Dixie and Kitally stared each other down until Dixie finally gave in and turned away.
Kitally took hold of Betty’s elbow and ushered her back to her room, leaving a trail of urine for Dixie to clean up.
“Are you OK?” Kitally asked, her voice low.
“Never been better. I really did have to go.”
He stretched out the tarp he’d dragged from the garage and then rolled Gillian’s body onto it until she was faceup. He then took a breath and plunked his hands on his hips. She was deadweight, and she was heavy.
He looked around. So much blood had seeped into the cracks and crevices of the stone floor. “Look at this mess you’ve made, Gillian. Everything was going perfectly until you came along and complicated matters. Are you happy? Huh?”
He kicked her in the side. It felt good, so he did it again.
She just looked at him with that blank, lifeless stare of hers.
Dead or alive—it didn’t matter. She looked the same. He’d never once seen any fire in her eyes. Even when she was dying, she’d shown all the animation of a carp.
The nosy bitch had gotten what she deserved. He hated her more than he’d ever hated anyone. For a while there, Gillian had a small semblance of control over him, and he hadn’t liked it one bit.
A knock on the door jolted him. His heart rate soared.
Judging by the silhouette, it was a small boy. It was the neighbor, Landon. The boy used his hands to cup both sides of his face as he tried to see through the decorative glass.
“What are you doing? Are you having a party in there?”
With a sigh, he walked over to the door, unlocked the dead bolt and padlock, then opened the door just an inch or two so he could see the expression on the boy’s face, see if the kid knew too much. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard some loud noises. And then just now I heard you talking to someone.”
“I had my music on really loud before. And after that you must have heard me singing to myself.” Nosy kid.
“Oh. Are you painting another picture?”
“Not at the moment.”
Landon pointed at his chest. “You’ve got some red paint on your shirt.”
“Oh, well, would you look at that. You’re right. I do.” He thought about inviting the kid inside and finishing him off, but he had enough on his plate as it was. In any event, his mother chose that moment to call her son back home. “Your mom’s calling you. You better skedaddle.”
“Skedaddle?”
Get lost, kid. “It means hurry home.”
“Oh.” The kid turned and ran a few feet before he turned around and said, “I’ll see you later, sir.”
He shut the door and locked it. He had work to do. And he didn’t have much time if he planned to be at the gallery in time for the showing.
Lizzy pulled up in front of her sister’s house, turned off the engine, and sat there for a moment in the quiet. The last time she was here, Cathy and Richard had been fighting. Had her sister really left him?
It was time to find out.
She climbed out of the car and was halfway up the walkway when the door opened. Brittany stood there with a grin on her face.
Seeing her niece gave her a burst of energy.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Brittany said. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you in years.”
Lizzy took Brittany into her arms, and for the first time in the longest while, she felt a bit of life creep into her. “I’ve missed you so much,” Lizzy said close to her ear.
“I’ve missed you more.”
Taking a step back, Lizzy took a good look at her. She reached for her hair, let the silky strands brush through her fingers. “Your hair is getting so long. You look so grown-up.”
“I’ve been so worried about you, Lizzy.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I should have come sooner or at least called. Is everything OK?”
“Everything is good. Dad and Mom are getting divorced. They don’t belong together, but you already know that.”
Lizzy said nothing.
“And don’t worry about not coming around lately. I know you’re sad. I just don’t want you to ever feel like you’re all alone.”
Lizzy swallowed a lump in her throat.
Brittany glanced around. “Mom had to go to work today, but if you want to come in for a bit first—”
“No, I’m good. Are you ready to go?”
Brittany grabbed her things, and it wasn’t long before they were on the freeway, heading for Midtown.
“So,” Lizzy said, “I heard that you started art classes. How’s that going?”
“I love it. We have more than one instructor teaching the class. The teachers are inspiring, and the students are talented. I can’t believe I was accepted.”
For the next twenty minutes, they chatted, catching up on Brittany’s life. Lizzy enjoyed listening to the sound of her voice. It was like hearing a song she’d forgotten she loved.
It wasn’t easy finding a parking spot since many streets had been closed off from traffic, but they managed. The crowds were thick and the music was loud, a different musician on every other street corner. The first gallery they visited was the Phoenix Art Gallery. The art was interesting, and they had fun exploring. Lizzy noticed one particular painting where a magistrate in ancient Rome was carrying a bundle of rods with a projecting axe blade. “Look at that,” Lizzy said. “A fasces.”
“Good job,” Brittany said. “I just took a test on symbols in art. A fasces is commonly used as a symbol of power.”
“I knew it represented power, but I had no idea it was used in art.”
“Yep,” Brittany said.
This tidbit of information got Lizzy’s mind working overtime. “What are some other symbols?”
“Oh, gosh, there are lots of them. For instance, a book could symbolize learning or transmitting knowledge. A clock might symbolize the passing of time.”
Lizzy couldn’t help but wonder if the objects being left on the Sacramento Strangler’s victims could have anything to do with art. “What about a piece of coral?”
“Definitely. The red of coral often represents the blood of Christ. Since when are you so interested in art and symbolism?”
“It has to do with a case I’m working on.”
As they moved through the gallery, Brittany examined the artwork and paintings at close range while Lizzy examined each painting for something more. The idea that a piece of red coral could represent the blood of anyone hit an investigative nerve. They were on to something here. Her niece stopped and pointed at one particular painting and said, “See the distaff, the wooden tool right here?”
“What does it mean?” Lizzy asked.
“The distaff could represent the domestic role of women,” Brittany explained. “And this picture over here has a mirror lying on the bedside table. The mirror often signifies truth or vanity.”
It felt as if every molecule in her body were tingling as Lizzy followed her niece along, listening intently as she talked.
“The cool thing about symbols is they can evoke powerful emotions without the beholder even realizing it.”
“Really? That’s amazing,” Lizzy said. “So, what about a wreath of red roses around a young man’s head?”
Brittany took a moment to ponder before she said, “I don’t know if that’s a common symbol in art, but are you talking about Picasso’s Boy with a Pipe?”
“I don’t know. What does it look like?”
Brittany pulled out her phone, clicked away, and then showed her an image of a boy with a garland of roses around his head. “It’s oil on canvas,” Brittany explained. “It’s actually a painting of a local boy who used to visit Picasso’s studio. The painting went for one hundred million dollars at auction in 2004.”
Lizzy could hardly contain her excitement. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Maybe it was a long shot, but right now it seemed more than possible that the Sacramento Strangler could be involved in the art world.
After visiting the Phoenix Art Gallery, and then checking out some handmade jewelry being sold by local vendors on the sidewalk, they stopped in Ginger Elizabeth’s for some gourmet chocolates. Some of the other galleries they visited were devoted to photography. Although, after learning so much about symbolism in art, it was hard to concentrate on anything but the killer running loose in the area, Lizzy did her best to focus on her niece and their time together.
Their last stop before they headed off for dinner was the largest gallery they had been to so far. While Brittany admired two extraordinary Peter Max paintings, Lizzy found herself mesmerized by a contemporary picture of a woman stretched out on a raft, the fingers on her left hand brushing against clear blue water. Everything about the picture seemed to express a feeling of relaxation, and it might have done just that if not for the eyes. The eyes spoke volumes—enormous and round and frozen in terror. The woman on the raft was anything but tranquil. She was—
“That’s intense,” Brittany said as she stepped close to her side.
“I would say so.”
“Brittany,” a male voice called out, “so happy to see you here. And exploring one of my paintings, no less.”
The voice was familiar. Lizzy turned to see who was talking.
“And you
,” he said, wagging a finger at Lizzy. “Don’t we know each other?”
“This is my aunt, Lizzy Gardner.”
He snapped his fingers. “Of course.”
“Lizzy, this is Jake Polly. He taught one of the classes I was telling you about.”
Lizzy looked at him sideways. “You put up the poster in our window. This is your painting?”
“It certainly is. What do you think?”
Lizzy’s gaze fell on his hands, where she saw deep scratches that disappeared beneath the sleeves of his shirt.
“I don’t know anything about art,” Lizzy told him, “but your painting is definitely interesting. There’s so much going on, and yet it’s the woman’s eyes that draw me in.”
“I agree,” Brittany said.
“Is this lady on the raft supposed to be relaxing, or is she scared?”
“She’s having the time of her life,” he said. “She’s in heaven.”
“I’m not seeing that.”
Brittany touched Lizzy’s shoulder, trying to stop Lizzy from embarrassing her, no doubt. “I don’t think he wants us to critique his work, Aunt Lizzy.”
Lizzy didn’t pay her any mind. “Do you have models you work with, Jake, or did you use a photograph?”
“It’s OK,” he told Brittany. “I believe everyone should make up their own mind about art. The Lady on the Raft could be telling a story or making a statement. But none of that matters. It’s all about how it makes you feel, Lizzy.”
They spoke for some time about how he’d gone about painting the picture before them. No, he’d used neither a model nor a photograph, conjuring the woman out of whole cloth—“Except for the eyes,” he said, his own eyes gleaming. Lizzy never lost her feeling that there was something very odd about the man, and yet he was kind enough to answer her questions, and he seemed genuinely interested in explaining things to her.
“Well,” Lizzy said at last, “it’s certainly a powerful piece.”
“Well, art is powerful. Isn’t that right, Brittany?”
