I parked in the visitor’s lot and entered the main door through an atrium. Monstrous rubber trees and speckled dieffenbachia grew in redwood tubs. A blooming jasmine plant perfumed the air.
I filled my nose with the sweet scent, preparing myself for the coming odor of captive people in a confined area. Once I was in the main lobby, I took a tentative breath. Not bad. Smelled like nutmeg and cloves. I proceeded to the desk where two ladies were having an animated conversation.
“I’ll take Tom Selleck over Mel Gibson any day,” said the older of the two. She had curly hair and a nice smile.
“But it was a good movie,” persisted the younger. She had eight earrings curving the edge of her right lobe. “At least the plot made sense, and the acting was believable.”
“I suppose, but I get tired of all the special effects. Cars blowing up. Bodies strewn around. I like a good old-fashioned love story.” She turned to me and flashed her pearly whites. “Hi. What can I do for you?”
I showed her a rose. “I was hoping I could visit Dixie Ragsford.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Our singer rarely gets visitors. Let me check with the wing supervisor.” She picked up the phone and poked a couple numbers. Her voice was low, and the conversation was short.
She turned back to me and smiled again. “It’s a go. Marilyn is sending you an escort.”
Surprised, I asked, “Do I need one?” I was thinking bodyguard.
The younger woman giggled. “I know what’s on your mind, but you’ll be fine. The only danger here is getting lost. Dixie is on D-wing. For a first-time visitor the corridors can be confusing.”
I nodded and turned to the older woman. “You called Dixie ‘our singer.’ Does that mean she performs?”
“She croons to her dolls.”
“Will I be able to talk with her?”
“You can talk all you like, but she won’t answer. She doesn’t speak. She just sings.”
“And rocks,” added the younger woman. “She rocks in her chair and sings to her dolls.”
I was digesting this bit of information when a young woman hurried toward me. “Are you Dixie’s visitor?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yes,” I said. “My name’s Bretta Solomon.”
“I’m Judy.” She looked at the rose in my hand. “If that flower has a wire, you’ll have to remove it.”
I quickly pulled the wire off and wound it into a tight ball. Looking around for a place to put it, I finally stuffed it down in my purse. “Now can I see Dixie?” I asked.
Judy nodded. “If you’ll come with me.”
I thanked the ladies behind the reception desk, and then galloped after Judy, who loped down a corridor. “Why the rush?” I asked when I’d caught up to her.
She slowed her pace and grinned. “Sorry. These endless halls do it to me. I feel like Alice in Wonderland in the tunnel. I want to get to the end as soon as possible.”
Now that we were going at a slower pace, I looked through some of the open doors. The rooms were bright with sunlight. The walls painted muted beige with warm undertones. Oak veneer furniture and overstuffed upholstered chairs added a homey atmosphere. Patients/residents sat at windows or gazed at television sets. Most were old, some in wheelchairs.
Judy said, “This is the assisted living wing. B-wing is the infirm, most of whom are bedridden. C-wing is our new Alzheimer’s unit. We’re headed for D-wing. It’s been known as psychiatric care, but the powers-that-be are now referring to it as BHU—Behavioral Unit, which doesn’t have a stigma attached.”
“Do you take care of Dixie?” I asked.
“Yes. I have all summer, but next week is my last. I’m enrolled in nursing school. I’ll miss my patients, but I’ll be back to visit. This summer job has shown me that I’m not going into geriatric or psychiatric care. Too depressing. I’m thinking about obstetrics or pediatrics. I can’t decide.”
I studied the young woman at my side. Her figure was plump. She used little if any makeup. I liked her fresh clean looks. “Tell me about Dixie,” I said.
Judy glanced at me. “I feel sorry for her. She’s a talented lady, but little good it’ll do her. Her voice is that of a mature woman, but her mind is childlike.”
“Will she acknowledge that I’m in the room?”
“No.”
“Does she follow what you tell her to do?”
“If I say it’s time for her bath, she’ll undress. If I say it’s time to get up, she’ll put on the clothes I’ve laid out for her.”
“Does she ask for anything? A book or magazine? A piece of candy?”
“No.”
“But she sings?”
“Oh yes.”
“Does she do requests?”
Judy stopped in the middle of the corridor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wasn’t being flippant. I wondered if Dixie might respond to something besides her expected daily routine.”
Frowning, Judy said, “I’ve worked here all summer and you’ve never visited Dixie. I know you told me your name, but exactly why are you here?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t going to get into the whole story but even part of it sounded strange. My silence didn’t help matters.
Judy stalked off, saying over her shoulder, “I think you need to speak to my supervisor before I take you to Dixie.”
“No, please, I’ll try to explain.” Judy stopped and waited. “I was hoping Dixie might be able to clear up a mystery for me. Perhaps you read in the newspaper about the woman who was murdered over the weekend?”
Judy nodded. “Outside of town at that greenhouse. But what does that have to do with Dixie?”
“Dixie used to work there.”
Judy shrugged. “She’s been here for over two years. What could she know about something that took place recently?”
“I’m not sure, but her name came up on a job application form. I’ve been doing some investigating on my own.”
Judy’s eyes widened. “Oh. Bretta Solomon. Now I know why that name sounded familiar. I’ve read about your amateur detecting. You’re a florist, too.”
I felt my cheeks redden. “I’m a florist first, but yes, I do some sleuthing on the side.”
“I still don’t understand what you think Dixie can tell you, but come on.”
“If it will ease your mind, you can stay in the room with us.”
“I planned on that. Dixie is a special lady. I don’t want anyone or thing to upset her.”
“Is there any hope that she’ll get better? That she’ll resume a normal life?”
“I’m not a doctor, but I doubt it. I’ve read her case history and it’s sad. She was gone from River City for about six months. When she came back, her father, whom she adored, had died. Her mother had a new boyfriend and was about to remarry. Dixie went into a deep depression and tried to take her life. She was hospitalized, but slipped into a catatonic state. She stayed that way for almost a year. Last Christmas someone wheeled her into the activity room for a program. The music reached her. She began to sing. She underwent another evaluation, but other than being able to sing, there hasn’t been a change in her condition.”
“What kind of music does she prefer?”
“All kinds, but mostly country. Sometimes she’ll sing”Amazing Grace.” When she does, we all get chills. It’ll bring tears to your eyes.” Judy turned a corner and unlocked a door. “This is D-wing.”
I hesitated before I stepped over the threshold. Judy smiled. “Don’t let the locked door bother you. It’s here for the safety of our patients, some of whom like to wander. On D-wing the people are docile. We aren’t licensed for violent cases.”
I nodded and followed Judy down a narrower hall. All the doors were open and showed rooms that were small and sparse. Where the other area had been furnished with wood furniture and upholstered chairs, here it was metal twin bedsteads and night stands. I gestured to a room. “The decorator must have skipped this section.”
&
nbsp; Judy shrugged. “Most of these patients don’t know where they are, let alone what kind of furniture they’re sitting on. Besides, the state picks up the tab for their care. That doesn’t include frills. Our patients are kept clean and medicated, entertained if they’re interested. But most of all they’re safe, from the general public as well as themselves.”
We turned another corner and Judy stopped at an open door. “Here we are,” she said softly. She walked into the room. In a kind voice, she said, “Hey, Dixie honey, you have a visitor. This is Bretta Solomon. Can you tell her hello?”
The young woman sitting in the rocking chair didn’t respond. Judy spoke as she crossed the floor. “I told her how wonderful you sing. Can you give us a chorus or two?” No answer. Judy patted Dixie’s hand and motioned for me to come forward.
I approached the young woman slowly. Light from an uncovered window played across her face. Her eyes were open but vacant. Her lips were tipped up in a slight smile. In her arms she cradled a rag doll, its face was pressed against her breast. She patted the doll’s bottom, keeping time with the tempo of the rocking chair. She wore her long dark hair loose around her slim shoulders. She was dressed in faded blue jeans and a pink T-shirt. Her feet were covered with a pair of fuzzy pink slippers.
Following Judy’s hand gestures, I walked around in front of Dixie and leaned against the window frame. She looked normal if you discounted the expressionless eyes. I had to clear away the lump from my throat before I could speak.
“I’m … uh … pleased to meet you, Dixie. I have something for you. It’s a rose. Do you like flowers?”
No answer.
I laid the rose on the windowsill. “I see you have a doll. I used to have one that was dressed just like yours. Only my doll’s dress was red. You must like pink. Is it your favorite color?” I didn’t expect a reply, but continued talking quietly. “My mother made all my doll clothes. I’m not very handy with a needle and thread.” I talked about nothing for a few more minutes, then said, “You and I have several friends in common. Do you remember Dan and Natalie Parker? Or Jess, Harley, Irma, Donovan, or Eugene?” I paused after each name but there wasn’t any response, not even a flicker of an eyelash.
I looked at Judy and shrugged. “I guess I’d better go.” I leaned forward and touched Dixie’s hand. “It was nice meeting you. Perhaps I’ll come again. Would you like that?” Nothing. This time I couldn’t keep the tears from filling my eyes.
Abruptly, Dixie stopped rocking. She didn’t look at me, but held out her doll. I glanced at Judy for instructions.
She smiled. “Dixie offers her doll when she likes someone. Apparently, she likes you. You may hold her doll for a few minutes, but you have to give her back. Isn’t that right, Dixie?”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the doll. As I turned the lump of stuffing around I saw it didn’t have a face. I ran a fingertip over the puckered material where the button eyes had been removed. “For safety reasons?” I asked, thinking about the wire I’d removed from the rose.
Judy quietly explained, “No. Dixie doesn’t want faces on her dolls.” She pointed to three more sitting on the bed. “Several of the nurses have given her dolls, but Dixie plucks at the thread until it unravels and the features are gone. We’ve tried plastic dolls with fancy dresses and lifelike hair, but she hides them under her bed.”
I couldn’t control a shiver. “Why?” I wondered aloud.
Before Judy could speak, Dixie grabbed the doll out of my hands. She tucked it protectively against her breast. Softly, she sang, “Amazing Grace how sweet thou art—”
I listened until she started the third verse then slowly walked out of the room.
Once I was in my SUV, I wiped my eyes. Dixie’s voice was just as melodious as I’d been led to believe. Her talent was there for anyone to hear, but her mind had locked away any chance she had of being a star—or even having a normal life. It was pitiful and so incredibly sad.
I pushed thoughts of Dixie’s present situation away and concentrated on how she fit into this case—if there was a connection. Judy had said Dixie had been gone from River City for about six months. I assumed that was after she’d quit her job at the greenhouse. Harry Hinkle had told Mrs. Jamison that Dixie had been depressed when she came home. Judy had said that Dixie came home, discovered her father was dead and her mother was about to remarry. Judy had said Dixie went into a depression and had tried to take her life. Which tale was true? Was it important that Dixie was depressed when she got home or depressed when she learned the sad fate of her family?
I picked up the clipboard and removed Dixie’s job application form and replaced it with Shannon Plummer’s. What would I find out about her? I took a shaky breath and drove out of Coventry Acres. I had three possible addresses for information concerning Shannon, all neighbors. They all were located in River City’s elegant subdivision, Lakeview Estates.
It was a fifteen-minute drive to the suburb and another five minutes down a newly backtopped private road. Soybean and cornfields lay on my right. Off to my left was a valley with the Ozark Mountains in the distance. This abrupt change from flat cropland to ridges and bluffs and valleys was always a surprise. I’m accustomed to Missouri’s unique countryside, but it never ceased to amaze me how a few miles changed the landscape.
August was a dry, brittle month. Underbrush puts up a courageous fight for moisture, but it’s the trees that are the winners. They sap any available water, and the lesser vegetation turns brown and dies.
I knew I was getting close to Lakeview Estates. The roadside ditches were neatly mowed, and the view was more accessible. Fifteen years ago the parcel of land had been developed by a group of men who’d seen beyond the scrawny trees and eroded topsoil. They’d visualized a ten-acre lake embellished with stately homes. A dream is a dream until money comes into play. The realization of those men’s fantasy was awe inspiring.
I passed under the arched entryway. On my right was a slab of granite engraved in flowing script, LAKEVIEW ESTATES. Prime building locations were at the water’s edge. Once that area had filled up, more houses were built, encircling the lake like enlarging ripples cast from a stone. The streets were named after the developers’ family members. I was looking for Alberta Avenue.
I turned off Bethany onto Alberta and drove slowly, looking at the house numbers. I was in the third tier of homes; the first tier closest to the lake. I had three addresses to choose from, so I picked the biggest and showiest home. I pulled into a drive that was so wide I could have made a three-point turn in a Winnebago.
I grabbed a rose and my clipboard and walked up a winding sidewalk to a house that gave the illusion of being constructed with more glass than stone. Its angles and the forty-five-degree slope to the roof would have been a builder’s nightmare. The grass was the shade of green usually associated with spring. Sprinkler heads were sunk in the ground at regular intervals.
This time there was a doorbell. At my touch the chimes played a musical tune. I had no indication that anyone was around. No sound of occupancy. No creaky floorboards. No jiggling windows. The woman simply appeared at the glass door.
Poof! Human being.
And a fine specimen she was. I could see nearly every inch of her smooth, tanned skin. She was dressed in a skimpy lime green bathing suit. Her hair was dark blond and pulled into a ponytail on top of her head. Wispy curls framed her face and softened her features. Her nose was a little too short. Her eyes were a little too big. But I was nitpicking. The woman was gorgeous.
“May I help you?” she asked politely.
I had my clipboard with Shannon Plummer’s job application on top. I had the red rose in hand. I smiled. “I hope so. I’m looking for Shannon Plummer.”
Her green eyes crinkled with humor. “I haven’t heard that name in a while. Why do you want her?”
I was here to get information not give it. Besides, anyone who lived in this area wouldn’t be impressed by my cover story of back pay. “Do you know her?” I
asked.
“Sure.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “You could say we’re inseparable.”
I thought that over, then said, “Are you Shannon?”
“Very good, but I haven’t been a Plummer for almost two years. I’m a Taylor now.” She opened the door wider. “Come in. It’s too hot to talk out here.”
I stepped onto a white marble floor that made me want to pull off my shoes so I could cool my hot feet on the smooth stone. The walls were white accentuated with hammered-brass trim. A fountain bubbled merrily off to my right. On my left was a six-foot piece of sculpture made from twisted copper water pipes. Solder marks brazed the metal and had been used to attach couplings that jutted out at odd angles. Suspended from the center of tangled pipes was a grimy wrench.
Shannon followed my gaze and laughed. “Pretty cool, huh? My husband presented me with that gift last year on our first anniversary. It’s supposed to personify my maiden name.”
Plummer. Cute. I said, “When you have children how will you keep them from climbing on it? It looks like a jungle gym.”
Her friendly smile cooled. “They’ll treat my property with respect.”
Sure they will, I thought to myself. Out loud, I said, “This is a beautiful home. You used to live next door?”
She relaxed. “Yes. Riley, my husband, is ten years older than I am, but I’ve adored him from the moment my family and I moved here. Riley was a sober, bookish type of guy.” She waved a hand. “I tried never to open a textbook. I didn’t dream that he’d loved me, but things work out if they’re meant to be. He and I were made for each other.”
I murmured something that sounded like “how nice.”
“Why were you looking for me?” she asked.
Turning to the business at hand, I moved the clipboard so she could see the job application form. Holding out the rose, I said, “I wanted to talk to you about the time you worked for Parker Greenhouse.”
By degrees Shannon’s refined poise disintegrated. The warmth and confidence drained away, leaving her face ashen. She flinched as if I’d pinched her. Hoarsely, she whispered, “Who are you? Why are you here?”
Reap a Wicked Harvest Page 11
