Kyle paused, not entirely certain what she was asking. ‘With dementia?’
‘Yes,’ Detective Perez prompted, ‘with significant dementia living in the assisted-care residence and not one of the nursing-home buildings.’
‘It’s true,’ he added, ‘but I didn’t think there was anything wrong with that. I still don’t. People are much happier feeling they have some autonomy. My grandmother liked her apartment after she got over the shock of the move. I was doing everything I could to keep her from going into Safe Harbor.’
‘How,’ Agent Connor interjected, ‘is it possible for people with a “moderate” amount of Alzheimer’s to execute the kinds of contracts and other legal documents Nillewaug required?’
The question stopped Kyle cold. He thought about Nillewaug before the fire, walking the beautifully maintained grounds, seeing residents, many of them with ankle bracelets, many of them with aides whose sole purpose was to keep them from wandering off. ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t involved with that.’ Remembering how cavalier Delia Preston had been when he’d fretted over trying to bring Alice to Nillewaug. ‘She’s demented,’ Delia had said with a laugh and a conspiratorial wink, ‘she won’t remember what she did or didn’t sign. None of them do. It’ll be fine. Just fine.’
NINETEEN
Ada stared at the computer screen in the back office and toggled through archived documents from the local papers. Lil was out interviewing the family of the woman who’d died on the roof of Nillewaug, and Rose and Alice were napping back in her condo. The printer hummed as she made hard copies of articles that referenced the championship Ravens: Wally Doyle, Dennis Trask, and Jim Warren. Most of it was mundane reporting of high-school athletics, but throughout were hints of the excitement, state records broken and hyperbolic lines like: ‘Our three Ravens are flying straight to the state championships.’ More than the mediocre prose she was struck by the photos, crisp action shots of Dennis Trask, both feet off the ground, plucking a ball from the sky, Wally Doyle sacking an opposing quarterback, and one beautiful image of Jim Warren just as he’d snapped a ball, a hulking Doyle in front of him, his mouth open as though screaming for the opposing line to try and get through to his quarterback. Over thirty years later this picture was like some creepy metaphor for Nillewaug – Wally Doyle still protecting his quarterback. She startled when she saw the team photo that had been in Lil’s piece, only hers had been dripping with Wally Doyle’s blood. The photos gave her pause, remembering the obese man who’d tried to pressure her into having Rose divest her assets. How many at Nillewaug had gone for that? The underlying message clear: ‘Why wait for Gran to drop dead? Get her money now.’ Strangely, there was no byline for the photos. Whoever had taken these, on beyond knowing their way around a telephoto lens and high-speed photography, obviously had access to the team and the players.
‘Not so helpful,’ she said as she perused another search, this time accessing the Grenville High School website. She marveled at how times had changed to where parents were encouraged to email their child’s teachers and with a password could check to see if homework had been handed in and the latest test and quiz scores.
She clicked the menu option for ‘Year Books’ and a pull down for years appeared. She smiled, calculated back and detoured from the Ravens to pull up Lil’s 1968 senior class yearbook. She flipped through the electronic pages stopping on the images of a very young Lillian Herrington. She was editor of the school paper, sang in the choir, played a flapper in the senior production of The Boyfriend and under her portrait: ‘Most likely to: become a reporter for the New York Times.’ ‘Could still happen,’ Ada mused, studying the lovely young woman with long blonde hair, who hadn’t smiled for the photographer.
She moved the cursor back to the drop down and stopped on 1976 and 1977 – the championship years. And as she noted, the heyday of the Farrah Fawcett flip.
‘Interesting,’ she said, coming upon some of the same photographs that had been in the paper, only here they gave credit to Samuel King. ‘All right.’ Scrolling through the pages she found young Mr King in the photography club and on the staff of the school paper. And this is useful, how? And why do I know that name . . .? Lil’s article. She reached across the desk to a neatly folded stack of papers with Lil’s first piece on the fire. Sam King was Grenville’s Fire Marshall. ‘Again –’ thinking out loud – ‘why does everything tie back to those football players, this cannot all be coincidence.’ Wondering where she could get her hands on copies of the high school paper, or if they even still existed. A half-formed suspicion made her reach for the phone. It rang twice. ‘Lil?’
‘Ada, what’s up?’
‘I had a thought, are you still at your interview?’
‘Just finished, I was about to head to the next. I think I’ve got this fraud angle nailed. The trick will be explaining it in a way that doesn’t make my readers’ eyes glaze over.’
‘That’s great, but I still think the meat in this story is with the connections between your three Ravens. You want another? And I don’t know if it’s important.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Your Fire Marshall – who when Mattie was here I clearly heard her say he was pushing to have this labeled an accident – was the team photographer.’
‘Sam King, I’d forgotten about that. He was like a team mascot. He got some amazing shots . . . huh. In his preliminary report he did call it accidental. The state’s Fire Marshall wouldn’t commit.’
And that’s when Ada heard the front door bang open and her mother’s voice.
‘Ada! Ada! Where are you?’
‘Something’s up,’ Ada said. ‘We’ll talk later. It’s just –’ searching for the words – ‘this fire happened for a reason, my money is on arson, and it all feeds back to your Ravens. Yet your Fire Marshall, who was clearly in tight with those three, wants to call it an accident. It doesn’t sit right.’
Rose’s voice shouted from the foyer. ‘Ada! Where are you?’
‘We’ll talk later. Love you, Lil.’
‘Back at you, call me if you need me.’ And she hung up.
Ada pushed away from the computer, as Rose entered in a breathless panic.
‘What?’ Ada asked.
‘It’s Alice,’ Rose stammered.
‘Where is she?’
‘I was taking a nap,’ Rose said, her eyes wide behind her thick glasses. ‘I didn’t hear her leave.’
‘How long were you asleep?’ Ada was on her feet and racing back to her condo. She made a quick circuit, checking the bedrooms, the bathrooms and the living room, opening every closet as she went. Her pulse pounded – this is a nightmare. The door was locked. When did you last see Alice? Noon? One? Staring at the kitchen clock – it was almost three.
‘Not more than an hour.’ Rose trailed after her daughter. ‘She can’t have gotten far.’
Ada nodded, sensing her mother’s distress. ‘This isn’t your fault,’ she said, not certain if that were entirely true. Then again, they’d all agreed to look after Alice, if blame were to be placed . . . ‘We’ll find her.’ And she was out the door. She stood at the top of the walk and looked down at the quiet street below. The late-morning sun warmed her face. ‘Alice,’ she shouted, ‘Alice.’ Turning slowly, she saw Bernice Framm’s face in the corner of her kitchen window. Normally, Bernice’s snooping was a source of annoyance, but now . . . She looked directly at her, and, making eye contact, walked to her front door. ‘Bernice,’ she called, knocking and ringing the bell.
‘Hold on,’ said a startled and unhappy voice, ‘I’m coming.’
Ada waited, trying to decide her next move. Lil was out with her interview and Aaron was in school. She thought about calling Kyle. If she couldn’t locate Alice quickly, she’d have to inform him. After an agonizing wait, Bernice’s door cracked open.
‘Yes?’ Bernice, who’d spent fifty years as the secretary to Grenville’s mayors did little to hide her dislike for Ada. ‘What can I do for you?’ Her mouth pursed.
Ada had wondered at Bernice’s animosity. She’d said few words to the woman in the years they’d been across-the-walk neighbors, but from the beginning she’d sensed her ill will. Was it because she was from New York, Jewish . . . gay? But now was not the time. ‘The red-headed woman who’s been with us the past couple days; she’s wandered off, have you seen her?’
Bernice’s eyes narrowed. ‘There are rules about the number of guests we’re allowed.’
Ada was taken aback, and fought down her first impulse, which was to throttle this woman who’d spent her working life as the gatekeeper to the town mayor. A position that, according to Lil, she’d used as her personal throne of power, blocking access like a linebacker. Keeping a calm smile – at least what she hoped passed for one – Ada shifted tack. ‘Thank you, Bernice, and yes I’m aware of the guest rules. I have a three-bedroom unit and between my grandson, my mother and Alice, both of whom we’ve taken in after the Nillewaug fire – where they lost everything – I’m still below the four-person limit.’
‘They were in the fire?’ Bernice’s eyes lit, the whiff of gossip overcoming her dislike.
‘It was horrible,’ Ada admitted, realizing two things. First, Bernice already knew her two visitors had been in the fire and second, parsing out information was the key to getting Bernice’s help. ‘And this place, every road looks like every other one. Coming from Nillewaug where everything is laid out, they don’t have a prayer.’
‘And the streets have no names,’ Bernice added, shaking her head and warming to a favored topic. ‘You’d think they could at least name the streets instead of just putting up the numbers for the units.’
‘So true,’ Ada said. ‘Anyway, I was hoping you saw her, she can’t have wandered far.’
‘I don’t know,’ Bernice said, her tone pessimistic. ‘I might have seen her, but it was over an hour ago.’
Ada followed Bernice’s gaze. It led not down the path to the road, but in the other direction past the circular seating area to an unpaved hiking trail through the woods. And sure enough, when she squinted she could see faint footprints in the layer of yellow pollen. ‘Thanks, Bernice.’
‘Will she be OK?’ the woman asked. ‘Does she have health problems?’
‘She’s fine,’ Ada said, imagining that Bernice would have preferred something juicier, like: she has a rare exploding heart condition, I’m certain she’ll have detonated by now.
‘That’s good,’ Bernice said, her expression resuming its resting state of pinched disapproval.
‘She is a bit confused,’ Ada added, thinking it best to give her something.
‘Like Alzheimer’s?’ An uptick in Bernice’s voice.
‘Yes, sadly.’
‘Oh that’s just terrible. Should I call security?’
‘If it’s no trouble,’ Ada said, knowing that this favor would cost.
‘No trouble at all . . . but can’t they just locate her with the bracelet?’
Ada startled. ‘Of course.’ She looked at Bernice and felt a bit ashamed for not having thought of that herself. Yes, since the fire, the bracelet hadn’t been connected to whatever system Nillewaug had used, but . . . ‘Thank you so much, Bernice,’ she added, a bit more effusive than was normal. ‘If you call security, her name is Alice Sullivan. I’ll try to see if the bracelet is functioning. Thank you so much.’ Pulling out her cell, she headed toward the wooded path. Entering the sun-dappled woods she tried to think of what she’d say when Kyle picked up.
‘Hello?’
‘Kyle, it’s Ada. I don’t want to worry you, but your grandmother has gone for a walk and we’re trying to locate her.’ There was a crushing silence, and Ada imagined what he must be thinking of her and Lil after they’d agreed to keep Alice safe. ‘Kyle?’
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘How long ago?’
‘About an hour,’ Ada admitted, always a firm believer in full disclosure. Her gaze on the path’s gentle upward slope, the visibility good as the trees weren’t yet in leaf. ‘She’s wearing a bracelet. Any chance it’s still working?’
‘It should,’ he said. ‘It’s GPS, hold on and I’ll get the number for the monitoring service.’ He read her the phone number and gave her Nillewaug’s access code. ‘I’ll be there in five,’ he said.
‘No,’ Ada said, her fingers rapidly entering the numbers into her cell. ‘We’ve got security notified and I’ll call the monitor people. We’ll find her, Kyle. She’s on foot and there are just so many places she can go.’
‘I’m on my way.’
Before she could argue further, his phone clicked.
‘I’ve got another call coming,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in a few. If you find her before I get there, call me.’
‘Of course,’ Ada said, as the line clicked off. ‘Terrible, how could this happen?’ she muttered, while calling the monitoring company. A woman with an Indian accent answered. Ada quickly described the situation with Alice.
The woman asked for the account number. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the bracelet is operating. You can locate her with your GPS.’
‘What GPS?’ Ada asked.
‘Do you have a smart phone?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, and wondered what would have happened if her phone wasn’t so clever.
‘Not a problem. Just go to the App store.’ She gave her the name of the company’s GPS application. ‘Download our app to your phone and punch in the access code. It will then ask you for Alice’s name and date of birth, which, if you do not have handy, I can give to you. Alice will be the red bull’s-eye on the screen and you will be the green arrow. It is very simple to operate . . . and a bit of fun, like a game.’
Ada thanked her, not seeing the ‘fun’ in any of this and sitting on a bench beside a copse of laurel, did as instructed. Waiting for the app to load, she hiked up the slope, her eyes scanning the periphery in case Alice had wandered off the path. Her emotions an anxious gurgle of guilt and fear. Why did we leave her with my mother? Because she asked you to. Why did we take her in the first place? Because it was the right thing to do. What if something’s happened to her? The bar on the app reached completion and a picture of a house with the words ‘Safe Home’ appeared on the screen. She touched it lightly with her finger, and then carefully entered the code and Alice’s information. The screen blinked twice, and like something on an old video game a red bulls-eye and green arrow appeared. Between them a dotted line let her know Alice was roughly half a mile away. With the phone in hand, she pictured the layout of Pilgrim’s Progress and had a good idea of where she’d gone. And saying a silent prayer – please let me find her. Dear God, please let her be OK – she broke into a jog and darted up the path.
Kyle Sullivan hung up with Ada, and wondered what new horror faced him on the other line. This day— No, he thought, since Sunday, like a dream . . . a waking nightmare. Where, when you think things can’t get worse, they do. The cell showed it was Kelly calling. He thought about not answering, but knew his twin would keep on trying.
‘I’ve been thinking this over,’ she said, before he’d even said hello. ‘I’m coming to get Grandma.’
He pictured his beautiful sister, Kelly, and her glamorous SoHo loft, with soaring windows over West Broadway and mid-century Danish furniture. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been a self-centered bitch, as usual.’ Her tone dramatic. ‘And as usual you’re too much of a good guy to say it. I’m coming to get Grandma Alice and nothing you can say changes things. It’s time I stepped up, at least till things calm down.’
A long list of objections flew to mind and hovered on Kyle’s tongue. He bit the inside of his mouth. Where to start? But then, the thought of seeing Kelly, of desperately wanting someone to talk to, and maybe for the short run, if she threw enough money at it, she could take care of Alice. Of course she had no clue what was involved, but he could tell her, let her know how to hire aides, how to work around Alice’s funny emotional quirks, how to distract h
er – maybe this could work – knowing in his heart there wasn’t a chance in hell. As his concerns pushed from his brain to his mouth, he stopped himself – are you insane, man? Let her help. ‘How soon can you get here?’ he asked.
‘I’m on my way.’
TWENTY
Not for the first time today, Lil asked herself, What are you doing? It was late Tuesday afternoon, her nerves jangled, as she sipped black coffee in one of the two window tables at the Brown Bear diner. Her back was to the kitchen and she gazed out at the colonials on Main Street – mostly antique shops now, but private homes when she was growing up. She glanced at the clock over the door – nearly four fifteen. He said he’d be here by four. Is he even coming? He clearly didn’t want to. She felt discouraged, frustrated and humiliated and wondered if this wasn’t just setting the stage for more of the same. The last couple of hours spent on her cell with families of Nillewaug residents, seeing if anyone would be willing to discuss how it happened that their once well-off elder relatives had come to fall below the poverty level and meet Medicaid eligibility. It was while pursuing this thread she’d received a soul-crushing call from her editor. ‘What are you doing?’ he’d asked. ‘The fraud story at Nillewaug is way too big for you. Didn’t we agree on that? That’s the problem here, you’re so green you don’t know what you don’t know. And what’s worse,’ he’d continued, ‘you’re muddying the water for Daryl who can actually handle this story. You need to back off. Stop calling these families. Obviously there’s something going on, and all you’ve done is made it harder for Daryl to get the story.’
The call had deteriorated further. She’d tried to explain, but every time she began to speak, he’d interrupt. He was furious. But why, she wondered, was he so mad? What have I done that’s so bad? Even here, people had come up to her and told her how good they’d thought both of the stories had been. Were they just being polite? The call had ended with Edward Fleming throwing her a scrap. ‘You want a piece of this story. Here, find out what the plans are for the displaced residents – that’s it, Lil. Stay away from Medicaid fraud, from arson, from homicide. Just report on the homeless, how many, where they are, and what the plans are. Can you do that?’
Best Place to Die Page 20
