Grave Matters ccsi-5

by Max Allan Collins

  Catherine grunted, "Huh," then asked, "Do we know what her nursing background is?"

  "Still checking, but she was working as a caregiver before she married Fairmont, anyway."

  "Where? Who?"

  "Doctor's office. Dermatologist named LeBlanc. Practice on Charleston near the University Medical Center. She was there about three months before she married Fairmont."

  "And before that?"

  Warrick shrugged. "That's as far as I've got."

  "Well, hell! We need more."

  "Right-that's why Vega's going out to her place to talk to her. Has an appointment in just under an hour, in fact…. We can tag along, Vega said. Want to?"

  Eyes wide, nodding, Catherine said, "Ooooh yeah…"

  The Fairmont home nestled in Spanish Hills out Tropicana Avenue. A wide, low ranch-style on Rustic Ridge Drive, the house had the obligatory tile roof and a two-car garage, a late-model red Pontiac Grand Prix parked out front. The lawn didn't appear to have met water since spring and-other than a droopy fruit tree-the only other decorative touch was the red, white, and blue FOR SALE sign of a local Realtor.

  Vega led the way as the three walked up a narrow sidewalk that led to an inset front door.

  The detective rang the bell and, a moment later, the heavy Spanish door was swung open by a lithe blonde, perhaps five-foot-eight, an extremely well-preserved forty-something. She wore the white pants and floral smock of the Sunny Day nurses.

  "Detective Vega," Vega said, showing her his badge. "You're Rene Fairmont?"

  "Yes," the woman said, her voice husky.

  "We spoke on the phone earlier. Afraid we're a few minutes late."

  "Traffic in this town," she said, with a shrug. "But I do have to get to work…so can we make this brief?"

  "We'll do our best. These are Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown from the crime lab."

  With a friendly smile, she shook all of their hands, then gestured and stepped aside for them to enter. "But remember, I've only got a few minutes."

  "We won't be long," Vega assured her.

  To the left of the front entry was a spacious, formal living room, not at all lived-in looking; the interior was brick here and wood there, with a stark geometric feel, including the overhang mantel of a built-in rough-stone fireplace.

  Why, Catherine wondered, did people in Vegas, where the temperature was seldom below sixty, so often insist upon having fireplaces?

  A giant picture window overlooked the brown front lawn, and the furniture-two sofas, three chairs, and numerous tables-were fifties modern, either copies or well-preserved originals…like Rene Fairmont, Catherine thought. Several geometric modern-art paintings dotted the brick walls and a few abstract sculptures had been carefully placed around the room. The woman's late husband had been a drama professor, after all, and a whiff of the artistic permeated.

  A nice home of its era, in fine shape; but something about the lack of yardwork outside, and the dominance of the late husband's taste, gave Catherine the feeling that the Fairmont woman was somehow just…passing through. And of course that FOR SALE sign was the best evidence backing up that theory.

  Rene Fairmont waved for them to take a seat and she perched on the edge of a sofa; between them was a kidney-shaped coffee table cut from wood and heavily laminated. A very pretty woman, Catherine thought, noting the high cheekbones and heart-shaped face, shoulder-length hair, flawless complexion, big dark blue eyes with long lashes, and a smile that seemed both shy and endearing.

  Catherine noticed something else, however: a high-gloss hardness, not unlike that shiny coffee table. This might be a product of the sudden death of her husband; she'd seen the quality in recent widows before. And those big blue eyes, for all their smile crinkles, seemed detached from the woman's pleasant expression. She was studying them, the way…

  …the way a cop studies a potential suspect.

  Their hostess took the lead. "On the phone you said you wanted to talk to me about Vivian Elliot. I don't have much to share, but please-ask me whatever you like."

  "Let's start with your reaction," Vega said, "to hearing she'd died."

  "Well, of course I was sorry to hear Vivian had passed. She was a dear sweet lady, very friendly. But she had spine. She couldn't be pushed around or manipulated."

  "When did you learn of her death?"

  "In the most routine manner-every day we get an update at the beginning of shift."

  "Is it commonly known at Sunny Day that Vivian was murdered?"

  If Vega had intended this hardball to jar the woman, the effect was nil.

  "Of course," Rene Fairmont said. "We do have our little Gossip Club, if nothing else."

  "How long had Vivian Elliot been under your care?"

  "Well, since she got to Sunny Day…. I'm the second shift nurse in that wing, so all those patients are mine-from the time they come in until…until they leave us."

  Catherine said, "Seems like a lot of patients have been 'leaving' lately. Had you noticed anything unusual about that?"

  Shrugging, Rene said, "I've worked in continuing care off and on for nearly fifteen years. You have these little runs of bad luck. It happens. But, by the same token, I must admit it's a little unusual for the streak to go on this long."

  "You noticed the 'streak' when?"

  "Oh…two or three months ago."

  "Who did you tell?"

  "Tell? I didn't 'tell' anyone. We all knew it. It was a topic of conversation amongst the staff, at least the nurses and orderlies. Of course we talked about it, but, like I said, sometimes these things just happen."

  Vega said, "None of you thought it was worth calling the authorities over?"

  Her radiant smile seemed wrong as an immediate response to such a question. "Why? It's an old folks' home…people come there to die…. Oh, I'm sure that sounds callous, but when you work in continuing care, you get used to the idea that more of your patients are going to die than live. In that way, I suppose it's much like working in a cancer ward…. I would imagine if the average people knew how you detectives talk about cases and victims, you'd seem callous."

  Warrick said, "That's true. But didn't you have a responsibility to say something about this string of deaths?"

  "I'm a nurse, Mr. Brown. That would seem the place, the responsibility, the purview of the doctors. And your coroner's people came out, in every instance, of course…. Really, how much more of this is there? I don't want to be late. I have living patients who're depending on me."

  Catherine ignored that, saying, "You said you've worked in continuing care for most of the last fifteen years."

  She sighed; settled. "That's right-until I got married three years ago."

  "We understand your husband passed away, not long ago. We're very sorry."

  Rene Fairmont glanced toward the fireplace and gestured to a silver urn on the mantel. "We were very close, Derek and I; it comforts me that he's still…looking over my shoulder."

  "I lost my husband not long ago," Catherine said.

  Warrick flicked Catherine the barest sideways glance. Eddie had been Catherine's ex-husband, of course, and his schemer's lifestyle had got him killed. But Catherine was trying to make a connection behind the hard smooth surface of another widow-was the woman protecting herself behind a coffee-table veneer? Or did that veneer conceal flaws, or even…emptiness?

  "Well, then, Ms. Willows-you know what my life is like. You know that it's been hard. Derek was a funny, bright, vital man. He was everything to me."

  "You quit your job when you married?"

  "His idea, really. I was working for a dermatologist, Dr. LeBlanc-that's actually where I met Derek. He came in to have a biopsy on a mole. We started talking and, you know, just hit it off."

  Catherine asked, "You weren't working in continuing care at the time?"

  "No, I'd only been in Vegas a short while. I bounced around a lot when I was younger. Late seventies, early eighties are kind of a blur, frankly." Her laugh was attractive if
brittle. "We're about the same age, Ms. Willows. You might understand."

  "I might."

  "Anyway, Vegas is the first place I've really put down any serious roots."

  Maybe so,Catherine thought, but the roots in your front yard are dying….

  The woman was saying, "I tried to find nursing-home work when I came to town, but Dr. LeBlanc was the first nibble I got and I needed a job, so I went to work for him. A lot easier than continuing care, frankly."

  Vega asked, "Can you tell us a little more about your late husband?"

  She glanced at her watch; when she looked up, her smile was glowing but apologetic. "I'm really sorry, it's getting late and I do have to go…. If you're looking into Vivian's death, why are we spending time on Derek?"

  The detective shrugged elaborately. "Forgive me. He was well-known around town. I was just curious."

  She fidgeted, but said, "Well, I can understand that. He was a wonderful man; I miss him every day. He was a generous, shirt-off-his-back kind of guy…. Anything else?"

  Warrick smiled, his body language casual, hands folded and loosely draped between his long legs. "He was at UWN for almost two decades, I understand. Everybody loved him."

  "Yes, he was legendary in the drama department. Taught acting, directed the two plays every year-drama in the fall, musical in the spring. And, as always, he'll be in Hamlet this fall."

  "Pardon?" Vega said.

  Warrick said, "He plays Yorick." He held his hand out as if cupping an imaginary skull. "As in, 'Alas, poor Yorick'?"

  Catherine said, "His skull plays the part. It was in all the papers."

  The actor's widow smiled bravely and said, "He wanted to stay active in the theater," a quiver in her voice.

  But no tears in her eyes,Catherine noted.

  The widow went on "As I say, he was a generous man. Though he was cremated, he'd arranged to donate certain organs to the University Medical Center…in addition to his skull to the UWN drama department."

  Though she knew the answer, Catherine asked, "Sorry to ask, but…how did Derek die?"

  Rene glanced at her watch again and rose. "He had a heart attack…. I'm sorry, I really have to get to work."

  The others rose as well and followed her to the door. As she held it open for them, Warrick asked, "Why no autopsy?"

  "Pardon?"

  "It's just unusual when a relatively young, healthy man passes."

  "Derek was young-ish, but he was a chainsmoker and, frankly, a drinker. He led a very full life."

  "Where did he end it?"

  An edge of irritation tightened the lovely mouth as she stood holding the door very wide for them to leave.

  But Rene Fairmont did take the time to answer Warrick's question: "We were vacationing in Mexico when Derek died. His body was brought back here, where his skull was removed per his wishes."

  Warrick asked, "You said he was an organ donor…?"

  "Yes-the hospital in Mexico harvested them and handled their transfer to the University Medical Center. Otherwise, my husband's remains were cremated here at home, which had also been his wish."

  "Thanks," Warrick said, and they stepped outside, the Fairmont woman, too.

  "If you'll excuse me," their reluctant hostess said, as she pulled the door shut and checked the lock.

  Then she slipped quickly past them and trotted off to her car. She had backed out of the driveway and disappeared up the street before Vega, Catherine, and Warrick had even gotten to the Taurus.

  As they watched her go around a corner and out of sight, Warrick said, "Alas, poor Derek."

  Catherine smirked humorlessly. "Something smells in the state of Denmark."

  Vega said, "What does Denmark have to do with it?"

  "Nothing," Catherine said. "But that's one cold woman, and I think she may be a better actor than her late husband."

  "What reason," Warrick said, "do we have to suspect her?"

  "She's just on the radar," Catherine said. "But she's really, really bleeping…."

  Vega said, "I have a legitimate suspect to talk to…Vivian Elliot's neighbor, Mabel Hinton. Wanna come?"

  Mabel Hinton was not home, but she wasn't difficult to find. The petite, plump white-haired woman in a white kitty-cat top and pink pastel pants was at Vivian Elliot's home, watering plants.

  They sat at Vivian's kitchen table and talked to the woman. She had brown eyes that would have been lovely had they not been magnified and distorted by the thick lenses of tri-focals. She had insisted on their sharing the coffee she'd made for herself, as she tended her duties for Vivian around the house.

  "Until an attorney or someone official tells me to stop," the woman said, her voice rather high-pitched, almost child-like, "I'm going to keep helping Vivian. I promised her I would."

  Catherine took in what had to be the unlikeliest murder suspect she'd ever encountered. This was a sweet old lady-and if it wasn't, the gal had acting skills that neither Derek nor Rene Fairmont could match.

  "We need to clear something up, Mrs. Hinton," Vega said, doggedly staying at his note-taking despite her fussing over getting him coffee, creamer, and sugar.

  "Anything I can do to help Vivian's cause. Anything!"

  "You told me yesterday that you hadn't visited Vivian the morning she passed away."

  "That's right."

  "Is there any possibility you might be mistaken?"

  "I don't believe so."

  Catherine said, "When did you last see Vivian?"

  "The day before she passed," Mabel said, unhesitatingly.

  "Are you sure? Why, I can think it's Tuesday when it's really-"

  "Young lady! I am not prone to senility. I was a schoolteacher and I have an orderly mind and an orderly way about me. I did not go to visit Vivian."

  Vega said, "Someone signed your name who did visit her."

  "Do you have it?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "This signature of mine. That's supposed to be mine."

  "Actually, I haven't picked it up yet," Vega said, embarrassed. "It's with the guard at Sunny Day-"

  "Well I suggest I give you a sample. And you can compare the two signatures and see if you, or your expert people, really think I signed my name…. Maybe that guard got confused. Which one is it? Fred?…He's such a ditz."

  Catherine smiled and sipped her coffee. She had never seen the competent Vega look so flummoxed.

  Warrick said, "What were you doing yesterday morning?"

  She smiled sweetly at him. "Do you mean, do I have an alibi?"

  "Uh…" Warrick shook his head, laughed. "Yeah, Mrs. Hinton. Do you have an alibi?"

  "What time would that have been?"

  Vega told her.

  "Well, I know right where I was: home."

  "You live alone?"

  "Yes, but I wasn't alone. I was getting my reflexology."

  Catherine said, "Excuse me?"

  "I take reflexology once a week. It's not just for your feet, you know-it's the science of nerve endings that keeps a person's whole body healthy. Why, if Vivian had listened to me…she could be stubborn, you know…she might well be with us today. My reflexologist would have gladly gone to Sunny Day and given her the treatments! They're only ten dollars."

  Warrick, frowning as he tried to grasp this, said, "Is that a kind of…foot massage?"

  "Young man, it's a scientific application of pressure. My reflexologist uses a machine and a rubber-tipped hammer pounds my little tootsies ever so efficiently. And look at me! I don't look a day over sixty-eight."

  "Indeed you don't," Warrick said, eyes wide.

  "I'll tell you what I'll do," the little woman said, getting up and removing their empty coffee cups. "I will write down my reflexologist's name and address and phone number…I have the e-mail address, too, if you need that…and I will give you an exemplar of my signature. And then you will go off and be detectives, and I will finish my duties here for Vivian."

  Minutes later, outside the Elliot home, Vega stood
looking shell-shocked. "She's not our killer," he said.

  "You think?" Warrick said.

  "I hope she isn't," Catherine said.

  Warrick half-grinned. "Why's that?"

  "Because she would probably outsmart us."

  They rode back to HQ and split up. Vega headed out to Sunny Day to talk to Whiting again and finally pick up that check-in page, with a signature that might not be Mabel Hinton's after all. Warrick returned to background checking Rene Fairmont, and Catherine made the reflexologist call (a woman in Henderson) and confirmed Mabel Hinton's story. Then she started poring over the files of patients in the last eight months who had checked into Sunny Day and never checked out.

  All the bodies were gone, all the evidence, too-the only thing that the twenty-two people who had died in the last eight months at Sunny Day had in common was that fourteen of them had no families.

  Of the other eight, two had been cremated when no one from the families claimed the bodies. Of the six remaining, four had been given autopsies ruling death by natural causes. The last two, whose families had claimed them, had not been autopsied, shredding Catherine's last hope of finding evidence of a serial killer and/or conspiracy of estate fraud; both had died slow agonizing deaths, one from terminal cancer, the other from dementia. Fourteen estates remained that she could look into. She wondered how many had left their property to D.S. Ward Worldwide.

  That would take some digging.

  Sitting at her desk, her head in her hands, exhaustion nagging at her, Catherine considered whether or not there might be an easier way to catch Vivian Elliot's killer. If Whiting didn't do it-and no one had seen him anywhere around Vivian's room before she coded-Vivian had been killed by someone else in that building…and the list of suspects was long.

  Truly, anyone could have done it-they had no evidence to speak of and yet they still had a killer to find. There was nothing to do but keep poking around until she knocked something loose. For the next three hours, she never left her office, just plodded forward, record after record, lead after dead-end lead.

  Finally, Vega walked in, sat on the edge of her desk. "Whiting's in the clear."

  "How so?"

  "The good doc was in a room with a patient and another Sunny Day administrator when Vivian coded. Rock-solid alibi."