by Nevada Barr
“Think about it. Old ladies love me,” Royal says.
“Gigi is so onto you,” Mel returns scornfully.
“Doesn’t matter. They can’t help themselves. No disrespect, Mrs. Dennis,” he adds, remembering his manners. He sits next to Mel. “I could hang out nearby, cell phone at the ready,” he suggests.
“I think both Mel and I could outrun Chuck’s wife, if it comes to that,” Rose says.
“Gigi thinks other old people are genuinely old, and she’s merely faux old, still has the strength of ten men and can leap tall buildings in a single bound,” Mel confides to her friend.
“Barbara Boster probably is old!” Rose protests. “Chuck is seventy-one.”
“So that would make his wife, what? Maybe seventy or sixty-nine?” Mel says. “And you are?”
Rose sighs. “Point taken. I will work on my predilection for ageism.”
“We don’t have a clue what we’re doing,” Mel whispers to Royal.
“I heard that,” Rose says. “I have the ears of a bat. We do know. We are going to the Boster house. We will be open and mindful of the composition. We will observe hues, tones, and nuances, and note those that cause disharmony.”
“Gigi is a painter,” Mel explains to Royal.
“You said,” he reminds her.
Mel gestures to a stick buffalo figure with mutant reindeer horns. “She really likes your work.”
“I was six!” Royal protests.
“No,” Mel says. “Seriously. She really does. Don’t you find that … disturbing?”
“Show Royal the purloined letters,” Rose says. “See if he sees anything we missed.”
Mel crawls over to where the papers on the sale of Eddie Martinez’s truck lie. She tosses them fluttering in Royal’s direction. He snatches them out of the air and scans them. “Mr. Martinez’s address.”
“Check,” Mel says. “Gigi already knew, but the used car guy told her, and about Jack Gaines and PayPal, all that stuff.”
“Maybe Mr. Gaines could tell you the buyer’s name, but on the internet, it could be anybody saying they are somebody else.”
“We thought of that,” Mel says. “Anything else. I mean, like you or I have ever bought a car, but we’re extremely intelligent and sophisticated for our age.”
“I never should have told you that,” Rose says, angling the signal mirror, trying to see if her hair is sticking up in a duck’s tail on the top of her head.
“‘T. Brevard.’ Maybe a seller or buyer in Brevard,” Royal suggests, handing the pages back to Mel.
“That’s the town a couple of hours from here in the mountains I told you about,” Mel says to her grandmother.
“‘T. Brevard’ is in script,” Rose says. “A handwritten note. That made it stand out for me. An item Carter—the used car sales guy—could have noticed scanning the page on the fly, as it were. If you can think of how one might chase that wild goose, Royal, please join the hunt.” Rose glances at the screen of the cell phone on the cushion between her and Mel. “Two minutes. Gray Volvo. Sharon driving. Once more unto the breach.”
“Gigi likes being abstruse and recondite,” Mel says to Royal. “See ya.”
* * *
Given the cost of Longwood, Rose guesses Charles Franklin Boster is well-off. How well she is beginning to grasp as Sharon of the gray Volvo drives them past mansion after mansion in Eastover.
“I hope she doesn’t live in a gated community,” Rose worries. “That could louse up our nifty surprise.”
“It’s not gated,” Sharon says. “Some homeowners have been trying to get that passed, but there are too many public thoroughfares to get it by city government.”
“Good to know,” Rose says.
“This is it.” Sharon eases the Volvo into a wide curved driveway. In the half moon of earth between the street and the house, screening it, is a stand of ornamental bamboo at least forty feet high. An answering arc of startlingly white marble steps runs down from outsized double doors with gold-tone—or maybe solid gold for all Rose knows—handles in their middles.
The house is all of brick, painted gleaming white, with white shutters and white trim. There are three stories and a White House–themed circular balcony over the front door. Rose prices it at three or four million, and five thousand square feet minimum.
“Mr. Got Rocks,” Rose says, unhooking her seat belt.
“And money,” Mel returns.
“Don’t forget your flowers,” Sharon reminds them.
To ensure Mrs. Boster’s goodwill, Rose—technically Marion, since it was her ATM card—has sprung for a dozen soft pink roses, the petals edged with crimson.
Mel precedes her up the steps, past the urns planted with ferns and trailing vincas. She stops just short of the welcome mat, an incongruous thing of rough brown straw-like material. The mat is decorated with fat, childish yellow daisies, and the words WELCOME Y’ALL in lawn-green capitals.
Rose scuffs a toe over the Y’ALL. “That lowers the intimidation factor a few percentiles. See a doorbell?”
Mel finds the button and presses it. Inside, bells toll in mimicry of Big Ben.
They wait.
Rose sticks her arms out like the wings of a chicken so she won’t sweat on the linen dress.
“Probably had to send the butler in from the pool area or the tennis courts,” Mel says.
A butler wouldn’t surprise Rose, but when the door is finally dragged open, it is by a barefoot man in khaki shorts and a button-down short-sleeved shirt, worn untucked. He looks to be in his early forties; his sandy hair is receding, and a paunch is beginning to punch out the shirt.
He doesn’t speak or invite them in, just waits, probably for them to start their sales pitch or fund-raising speech so he will have grounds to tell them to bugger off.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Boster,” Rose states coolly.
The man blinks. Though he is bland and harmless-looking, there is a touch of the lizard in that slow blink.
“Hey, Barb!” he shouts. “Someone here to see you.” The man takes the flowers from Rose’s hands and trails them down by his side the way he might hold a baseball bat he hasn’t decided whether or not to use.
“To see me?” A female voice filters down a long hallway, followed by the hush of soft-soled shoes on thick carpet. A woman in her midthirties, with jaw-length soft auburn hair, drifts into view over the doorman’s shoulder. She wears white shorts and an aqua tank top that shows an abundance of décolletage. This bounty, as well as the woman’s face—a pleasant face with wide-set brown eyes—is deeply tanned and lightly freckled.
“I’m Barbara Boster,” she says in an oddly hopeful tone.
“My name is Rose Moore.” Rose was once told that Moore was one of the commonest names in America, more so than Smith or Jones, but without the fishy alias overtones. “This is my granddaughter. My husband is a friend of Chuck’s.”
“How nice! What’s your husband’s name?” Barbara asks.
“Peter, Pete.”
“Peter Moore.” Mrs. Boster thinks hard enough that a tiny crease appears between her eyes. “I never heard of him, but it could have been before my time.” Rose guesses there are about forty years of Chuck’s life that are before his wife’s time.
“Come in, y’all come in,” she says with a sudden smile, as sweet as a child’s. “We’re lettin’ all the AC out standin’ here.”
Mel and Rose follow her into an entryway carpeted in rich violet and lined with beautifully framed and matted botanical prints. It smells new. The prints are lovely, Lilian Snelling’s work, but mass-produced, the art not worth one-fiftieth the cost of the frames.
“Aren’t they pretty?” Barbara has stopped at the end of the hall and turned back, catching Rose studying one.
“They are,” Rose says. “I love her detail and the vibrancy of the colors.”
“Yeah,” Barbara says. “I thought they went real well with the new carpet.”
Rose winces internally, thou
gh they do go nicely with the carpet.
“This has all got to be repainted.” Barbara waves at the walls and the arched ceiling eleven or more feet overhead. That’s when Rose notices the prints are shadowed by a slight discoloration where larger pictures formerly hung.
“New artwork?” Rose asks.
“There used to be all these pictures of the inside of caves that Chuck took. Chuck was a good photographer. They made me sad—that and all dark wood flooring. Coming in the front door was like going underground. I like it light and airy.”
“You’ve done a beautiful job transforming it,” Rose comments.
“It’s gettin’ there.” Barbara begins walking again, Mel and Rose trailing in her wake. Behind them Rose hears the door whump shut, the sound like an air lock sealing.
The hall spills out into an enormous sunken living room that was built when formal rooms were in vogue. Now it is a cross between a great room and an entertainment center. The grand old fireplace, with its carved wooden mantel, serves as a base for a television easily seventy-five inches wide. On the screen, black football players are standing around while white men talk to each other. Rose wonders if it is Sunday. Or if football is all day, every day now.
“Have a seat,” Barbara says. The couch yawns white and sleek and enormous. Sitting on it is rather like being swallowed by Moby-Dick. The TV whines nasally in sports-speak. “Can I get you anything? A beer or a pop?”
“A beer would be great,” Rose says. It is ten thirty in the morning, and, on the whole, Rose isn’t a day drinker—or a beer drinker—but this seems like a brewski kind of moment.
“Coke okay for you?” Barbara asks Mel.
“Yes. Thank you,” Mel says politely.
“Diet or regular?”
“Regular,” Mel says.
“You go, girl.” Barbara smiles at Mel, then leaves the room.
The doorman has followed them in. He sits in a white leather-covered chair wide enough that Mel and Rose could have sat side by side never touching. Rose and Mel perch on Moby’s lower lip, both on their best behavior. The roses are dropped to the floor like a cast-off newspaper.
“So your husband and Chuck were pals back in the day,” he says. “Oh. Sorry.” He stands and crosses the three yards of carpeting, hand outstretched. “I’m Derek, Barb’s big brother. Helping her get squared away.” He shakes first Rose’s hand, then Mel’s. His grip is dry and warm, but too firm for delicate bones.
Barbara returns with a tray bearing three cans of Coors Light and a Coke, all unopened. Rose is relieved. After Longwood, she is leery of beverages of unknown provenance.
They all pop their tops. Rose has never tasted Coors Light. Turns out there isn’t much to taste, but it is cold and wet, so she swallows it gratefully.
“So how did your husband know Chuck?” Barbara asks, sitting gracefully on the end of the couch and tucking her legs under her.
“He isn’t here,” Derek says. He has returned to his vast chair and sits on the edge as though unwilling to commit to its embrace, beer can resting on his knee.
“Yes, I know,” Rose says. “My husband has dementia. I’m considering Longwood. When we went to see about it, Pete recognized Chuck. They hadn’t kept in touch—we moved to New Orleans about thirty years ago—but he knew him on sight.”
“Did Chuck recognize him?” Derek asks.
“No,” Rose replies. “The incident was stressful for Pete. I think it scared him. Pete knows he has memory issues, but not how bad they are. I can’t keep him home much longer, so…” Rose lets the sentence drift off, looking hopefully at Barbara and her brother. Derek takes a long pull on his beer. Barbara fiddles with her necklace, running a tiny gold cross back and forth along the chain.
“It seems like a nice place,” Barbara ventures. “I mean, they’ve got hot and cold running doctors, and it costs a bundle. The people seemed real nice.”
“Has your husband been there long?” Rose asks.
“A couple of months, I guess.” Barbara wipes a swath of silky hair back from her face. “Chuckie was a lot older than me, so I kind of knew I’d be a widow for a long time.”
Rose feels a stab of alarm. “Has Mr. Boster died?”
“Oh. No. But the docs don’t think he’s got much time. There’s kinds of dementia that go on for years, and kinds that are quick. Chuck’s got the quick kind.”
Might not last out the week. The words trickle in through a hospital room door in Rose’s mind.
“A blessing, I guess,” Barbara is saying. “I mean, who wants to live babbling and drooling? Chuck got pretty lost there at the end. Couldn’t even find his way to the bathroom. I’d find him outside or standing in front of the door not knowing where he was.” Her face softens in lines of sadness. “Poor old guy. I wish I could go see him.”
“Seeing you upsets him,” Derek says firmly. Barb sighs.
“How did you find out about Longwood?” Rose asks.
Barbara bites her lower lip, her teeth making drag marks in the lipstick.
“Didn’t you get a brochure, an ad in the mail?” Derek nudges his sister’s memory.
“That’s right,” Barbara says. “I forgot. Real nice brochure. Chuck was getting where I was afraid he’d fall in the pool or get out and get lost, so we checked it out.”
“Excuse me,” Mel interjects. “Could I use your bathroom?”
“Sure, hon,” Barbara says. “Down that hall on your right.”
Mel, smiling with embarrassment, edges out of the room.
“So no individual person recommended the facility to you?” Rose presses.
Dogs bark. Derek lifts his fanny to fish his cell phone out of his rear pocket. For a moment they all wait while he pokes at the screen. “Robocall,” he says, and wriggles farther over the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees, beer held between them in both hands. “Barb told you. A brochure. What’s this really about?”
His voice, never warm, has grown hard and cold. Has Rose pushed too hard? Hit a nerve? Or is he merely overprotective of his sister?
“I’m sorry if I seem to be a nosy Parker.” Rose flutters her hands in helpless confusion. “It’s just … Well, I’m so scared of making the wrong decision. What if I put Pete in a place where they—you know, you hear so much about elder abuse. Then there was that awful thing in Louisiana. Fire ants! This poor woman was stung to death by fire ants. Fire ants in her bed!”
“That’s just awful!” Barbara exclaims. “Ugh!”
Derek slips awkwardly from the blancmange of a chair. “No worries, Mrs. Moore. No fire ants at Longwood. It’s a classy setup in every way. If you go online—do you use a computer?”
“I took a class once through AARP,” Rose says vaguely. This story is sure to get a rise out of Marion.
“You get your granddaughter to Google Longwood. That’s all we can tell you. Good luck.” His eyes stray to the football game over the fireplace.
Once again Rose is being dismissed.
Mel materializes at the top of the shallow steps into the sunken room.
“We’d best be going,” Rose says.
“But you only just got here!” Barbara cries. “You haven’t even finished your drinks.”
“Not everybody can sit around all day and polish their nails,” Derek snaps. He picks up the abandoned roses, evidently intending to throw them out along with Rose and Mel.
“What’s with the roses?” Barbara eyes the drooping blooms. “They make me think of cheating husbands.”
Rose thanks Barbara for the beer and her time. “Y’all come back, now,” Barbara says, sounding as if she hopes they will.
Derek herds them to the double doors. When they are outside he reseals the air lock. The click of a lock falling into place officially ends the visit.
“So much for Chuck’s wife loving roses,” Rose muses.
“Bronze Suzuki driven by Thomas. Four minutes,” Mel says. As they round the stand of bamboo, she adds, “Checked out the upstairs. Brother Derek’s clo
thes are in the master bedroom.”
“They could be Chuck’s. Maybe, like your dad, Barbara can’t bring herself to get rid of them.”
“Nuh-uh. Not like in the closet. Dirty tighty-whities on the bathroom floor, stinky gym socks in the hamper.”
“One begins to suspect Barbara is not Chuck’s good wife,” Rose says.
CHAPTER 24
“We have to get Chuck out of Longwood,” Rose says.
Royal’s grandma is on a date, so the teepee tribe is enjoying the AC in the living room.
“Longwood didn’t abuse you,” Mel says. “Shouldn’t he be okay there?”
“Remember when I told you about the women in the hall saying I wouldn’t last out the week, and we thought I was crazy? I wasn’t. Early-rapid-onset patients don’t have a very impressive life span in the Memory Care Unit. Even Barbara—in her own Elly May Clampett kind of way—knew that.”
“I was surprised at how nice she was,” Mel says.
“Me, too.” Rose is on the floor stretching as they talk, easing tense muscles, and doing spinal twists to release built-up toxins. There is a veritable mother lode of them. “At the end, Barbara said there were two kinds of dementia, the slow kind and the quick kind, and Chuck has the quick kind. What do you want to bet Derek’s ‘robocall’ was a text from the evil overlord to be on the lookout for nosy white-haired ladies and precocious teenaged girls?”
“He did change from a passive-aggressive creep to an aggressive-aggressive creep after the call,” Mel notes.
“Derek is the not-brother?” Royal asks.
“Right. He of the dirty underpants,” Mel clarifies. Royal and Mel are on the couch, one on each end, their feet crossing in the middle. Each has a cell phone in hand and plays with it when the conversation flags.
“Weeks after Chuck is put in the MCU, Derek is in bed with the wife, who, we assume, is about to become a wealthy widow. Derek dominates Barbara; that was obvious. He must have come into their lives in an intimate way—maybe a personal trainer, or a private chef. The kind of job that gave him access to the house and the wife in an ongoing way.”
“Maybe they remodeled the kitchen,” Mel says. “The guy Dad hired practically moved in with us for six months.”
