Perish By Pedicure

by Nancy J. Cohen

  Her stomach sinking, she searched for a nurses’ station. She bypassed a gentleman dragging along and muttering to himself. He held on to a rail fixed on the wall.

  “Is this my room?” a woman asked in a wheezy voice. Marla hadn’t seen her come up from behind. “I don’t know where I belong. Can you help me?” She gripped Marla’s arm. “Maybe you should call a taxi to take me home.”

  “You don’t need no taxi, Hazel. Come on now, leave the lady alone.” A buxom nurse’s aide pried the woman’s fingers loose and grinned at Marla. “You lookin’ for someone, sugar?”

  “Yes, thanks, can you tell me what room Violet Parks is in?”

  “Two twenty-one. Violet is a doll. She always talks so sweet and lady like. Are you a relative?”

  “I’m a friend of her daughter’s.”

  “Oh lordie, we were so sorry to hear what happened to the poor gal. You go on and cheer her up now. Not that she’ll remember too much. You could say her condition is a blessing.”

  “What condition is that?”

  “Why, this here is an Alzheimer’s unit, sugar. Violet don’t remember things, but she always recognized her daughter. Such a shame.” Shaking her head, the aide guided her charge down the hallway.

  Marla discovered the room a few paces down and knocked on the open door. She might as well have been knocking on her own skull for all the response it generated. Stepping hesitantly inside, she peered at the two occupants.

  One woman was slumped in a chair, several feet from a television blaring a soap opera. Her roommate lay napping on top of the other bed. Both were fully clothed in colorful pants sets with their gray heads neatly combed. On the surface, it appeared their physical well-being was being looked after with diligence. But the strong smell of urine told another story. A package of disposable underwear rested atop the first woman’s nightstand along with a bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, and an eyeglass case. Each item was labeled with her name, Fiona Marsh. That meant her roommate must be Violet.

  Great, the old lady was asleep. Should I wake her?

  Might as well. She’ll be glad to have company.

  Advancing to Violet’s bedside, she tapped the old lady on the shoulder. Her wrinkled face seemed peaceful in repose, but her shortened stature and curled posture reminded Marla of a shriveled flower. Is this what happened when you got old? You reverted to a helpless state, and your life’s work got lost in the flux of time? Marla had a sudden clear picture of her life force developing as a bud, blossoming into full glory, then wilting into oblivion. Did it have to happen that way?

  No, thank goodness. Marla’s great-uncle Milton had been alert until the day he died at the ripe age of ninety-two. Some people retained their faculties and contributed to the world until they dropped. That possibility reassured her. But Marla’s expectations of gaining information from Violet had plummeted. She’d be lucky to get a lucid response.

  “Huh? Whassat?” Violet’s eyes blinked open when Marla gently shook her shoulder.

  “Mrs. Parks, my name is Marla Shore. I’m…I was a friend of your daughter’s. Christine mentioned that you lived here, and I thought I’d come visit.”

  Violet’s expression brightened. “Christine? Is she here?” She craned her neck to look beyond Marla.

  Oh joy. Now what? “I came alone. Can I help you sit up? Would you like a drink of water?” The old lady’s lips were dry, but she didn’t even have a water glass on her nightstand. Hospitals put water pitchers at patients’ bedsides. Were relatives responsible for supplying every personal item in this facility? She placed her potted plant on the table.

  “Thanks,” Violet said, sitting with Marla’s assistance. She narrowed her eyes. “Have we met before?”

  “No, we haven’t, but your daughter told me about you,” Marla replied, figuring a little white lie wouldn’t hurt.

  “You said Christine knows you?”

  “That’s right. I need some information, and she suggested I ask you about it. Have you ever heard of a place called Bell Farms?” If Heather’s death was linked to Chris’s, then the company director might have offhandedly mentioned something to her mother.

  “Say again?” Violet turned her head, as though she could hear better with one ear.

  “Bell Farms.” Marla raised her voice so the woman could hear her over the blare of the television. She glanced at the roommate, who remained focused on the screen like a statue.

  “Dunno about that. Did you tell me Christine was here? I don’t see her.” Violet reached for her walker.

  Marla wheeled it closer and helped the woman dangle her legs over the edge of the bed. Her limbs were frail, her skin almost translucent. The smell of baby powder drifted in the air.

  I guess you aren’t ready to acknowledge your loss. I can play that game. “Chris couldn’t make it,” Marla said. “What do you remember about her last visit?”

  “She had big plans, Christine and that doctor. Who did you say you were?”

  “Marla Shore. I worked with your daughter.”

  Violet’s eyes misted. “My baby…they told me…”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “For what? You have nothing to be sorry about. You look fine, although you’re a bit too thin.” Violet cackled, showing gaps in her yellowed teeth.

  Marla took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Can you tell me if Chris had any other friends in the area? She came to town a couple of days before the beauty show. Besides visiting you, did she see anyone else?” Likely Chris wanted a day off to soak up the sun, but it was worth a try.

  “Christine met that friend of hers,” Violet said with a wink. “She was so excited about something they were doing together. Help me up. They might still be in the hallway. She wanted me to meet him. My daughter gets so fixed on these causes that it’s all she talks about. She’ll be glad to let you in on the deal.” Gripping the handlebars on her walker, Violet shoved her feet into a pair of worn slippers at her bedside.

  “What deal is that?” Impatient to learn more, Marla helped the woman to her feet.

  “The one with Dr. Greenberg. You know, the skin doctor.” Violet hobbled forward a few steps. “He was involved in Christine’s latest project. If you ask me, I think she hoped I’d make a donation, and that’s why she brought him to meet me. They must’ve spent an hour discussing their business and forgetting I existed. That wasn’t right, not when I hardly ever get enough time to spend with my girl.”

  “You must miss her terribly.” Keeping pace with the old lady as she shuffled toward the doorway, Marla brushed past the other inhabitant, who didn’t move a muscle except to breathe. Violet didn’t have to worry about communicating with her roommate.

  Violet halted suddenly. “Are you the nurse? I want to go back to bed.”

  “Exercise is good for you. Come on, let’s go for a walk.” The people who worked here must have endless patience. Hoping she’d see the nurse’s aide in the corridor, Marla urged the old lady onward. “Tell me, did Chris like her job?” she said, trying another tack.

  “Christine loved her work” Violet’s expression cleared as though a veil had lifted. “She brought me product samples to use, in the early days when I got out more. Wouldn’t do me much good now, with the little hair I have left. Tell her not to bring me anything next time.”

  They reached the corridor, where Marla read a sign on the wall that said the recreation room was located down the hallway. Violet headed in that direction. Glancing at her watch, Marla compressed her lips. She should get back to the salon. Hurrying after Violet, she introduced another topic.

  “Did your daughter say how she liked working with Sampson York, our artistic director?”

  “She may have told me, but I don’t remember.” Violet bobbed her gray head at a passerby, a neatly dressed lady who actually spoke a greeting. Unfortunately, her garbled words made no sense. Violet paid no heed, continuing along at a snail’s pace.

  “Sampson owed Chris some money,” Marla prodded, realizi
ng Violet’s short-term memory surged and receded like a tide.

  “Is that so? Well, I hope he paid her back.”

  “Did she ever talk about her colleagues?”

  “Christine was in charge. She knew how to do the right thing. You know, too, don’t you?”

  Despairing of getting a relevant answer, Marla made a last attempt. “What about friends, other relatives? Can you guess who might have wanted to harm your daughter?”

  “Harm my baby? Why would anyone do that?” Violet blinked. “She did say someone was taking the money…”

  Marla’s pulse catapulted. “Go on.”

  The elderly woman’s face blanked. “It’s nice of you to come visit me. Have we met before?”

  Marla gritted her teeth. Farther along, she spotted a medicine cart propped outside an open doorway. Restraining her steps took strength of will, but she waited until Violet resumed her ambulation before searching for the nurse. A heavyset attendant wearing blue scrubs emerged from a room two doors down.

  “Excuse me,” Marla said with a lilt. “I’m a friend of Christine Parks. She told me about her, uh, project with Dr. Greenberg, and I’d like to make a donation. I can’t seem to find his phone number, although I’m sure he’s listed.”

  The nurse straightened. She wore her wavy black hair in a high ponytail, her florid complexion accented with rose-toned makeup, not the best choice in Marla’s opinion.

  “Dr. Greenberg, now he’s got a reputation among the old folks. They all go to him for their sun spots, but I heard him talking to Miz Parks’s gal about bringing in younger patients. Don’t know what all she’d have to do with it, but that doesn’t matter now. A shame what happened, ain’t it?”

  “Very sad.” Marla nodded at Violet, who hunched over to grip her walker. “Her mother keeps referring to Chris as though she’s alive. Is that normal for her condition?”

  “You betcha. Memory loss is common for residents on this floor, but I don’t think all of them have Alzheimer’s. Some folks got what used to be termed senile dementia. It’s nature’s way of blocking out the pain of growing old and feeble. Miz Parks, she be a sweet little ole lady. Always has a kind word for everyone.” The nurse wheeled the cart ahead several feet.

  “Does Violet have any other relatives in the area?”

  “Nope. There’s another daughter, but she don’t live in Florida, nor does she ever come to see her mama.”

  “So the last time Christine visited was right before she, uh, passed away?” The nurse gave a sad nod. “You didn’t happen to overhear if she had any particular concerns, did you?”

  “I’d have been too busy to take notice, sister. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to deliver these pills.” Flashing a quick grin, the woman whirled inside the next room.

  “Mrs. Parks, will you be all right by yourself?” Marla said, retreating a few paces. She felt as though the walls were closing in on her and couldn’t wait to leave the oppressive atmosphere. Another resident ambled by, humming the national anthem.

  “I’ll go back to bed now,” Violet’s voice quivered.

  “Wouldn’t you rather sit in the recreation hall? It’s bright and airy,” Marla suggested, peeking into the large space where several inhabitants sat in their wheelchairs while a loudspeaker played old show tunes. No one spoke to anyone else. It could have been a roomful of zombies with all those inanimate faces.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” Violet said in a belligerent tone. “Christine said she was coming to see me. Take me to my room.”

  “All right.” Her temples throbbing, Marla turned and tramped along at an interminable pace until they returned to Violet’s door. After ushering the old lady inside, she dashed to the exit. Muttering the numeric code aloud, she punched the keypad and grunted with relief when the latch clicked.

  Emerging outside from the first floor, Marla realized she no longer needed her jacket. The temperature had risen, and the warm afternoon air brought the perfumed scent of citrus. She shrugged free from her outer apparel, feeling like a prisoner released from jail. How awful to be confined in that place, and yet the old-age home provided good care for people who needed it.

  She stretched her arms and rolled her shoulders before unlocking her car. One hour may have passed, but it seemed like twenty. She craved a long walk with Spooks, with the sun kissing her neck and a fresh breeze caressing her skin, but that would have to wait.

  Crunched for time, she pushed aside her musings about Christine Parks, Dr. Greenberg, and the possibilities of their association until later that evening. She’d invited Anita over to shmooze with her houseguests, and she knew Ma’s friends visited just about every doctor in town. Anita might be able to get the scoop on the good physician.

  When Dalton called to say he’d stop by with Brianna, Marla decided to pull together a quick lasagna dinner. Tired from work and running errands, she didn’t have a minute to relax before setting the dining room table for seven and sticking her assembled dish in the oven. Before anyone else arrived, she recruited Georgia to help in the kitchen, while Justine and Larry munched on cashews in the family room.

  Georgia’s eyes sparkled as she spread minced garlic on the Italian loaf slathered with butter prior to baking. “Marla, you know, I was thinking. We could squeeze in one more person if I asked Goat to join us. I’ll bet the poor guy doesn’t get many invitations, and I really want to ask him about his volunteer work at the animal shelter. What do you say? Besides, Spooks would love to see his dog Rita.”

  Marla laughed. “You present a tough case, don’t you? I can see past your excuse of getting our poodles together, though. Why don’t you just admit you like my loony neighbor? Go ahead and ask him to dinner, but let him know it’s a crowd. Spooks and Rita can play in the backyard together.”

  Her plans went awry when Anita showed up with her boyfriend, Roger, and his son, Barry, in tow. Suddenly Marla had ten people for dinner, awkward introductions to make, and no chance to ask her mother about the dermatologist.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Here’s a hummus dip, Marla said, when everyone had settled into the family room, where a sports game ran on television at low volume. Anita had helped her add an extension board to the dining room table, but expanding the table had been easier than expanding their meal. Mentally calculating portions, Marla figured she could stretch the lasagna dish only by cutting it into fairly smaller slices.

  She’d already told Georgia to grab another garlic loaf from the freezer, but salads would be skimpy unless she added mandarin oranges and water chestnuts—fortunately, items regularly stocked in her pantry. Also fortunately, she’d renewed her supply of appetizers during her latest foray to the grocery store.

  “What’s hew-miss?” Justine said with a sniff when Marla placed the plate next to the eggplant dip. Justine and Larry sat stiffly on the loveseat, while Anita and Roger occupied the longer sofa. Dalton and Barry stood at opposite corners of the room, their arms folded and their postures tense.

  “Hum-us,” Marla corrected. “It’s a Middle Eastern dish made from chickpeas, garlic, lemon juice, olive oil, and tahini, a sesame seed paste.”

  “How interesting.” Justine’s nose wrinkled when Marla offered her a piece of pita bread. “No thanks, dear, I’ll stick with the port-wine cheese and crackers.”

  “Try this chopped liver,” Roger said, munching. “Anita made it, and it’s de-lish. Her daughter is just as good a balebosteh. You’re getting a prize for a daughter-in-law.”

  Anita nudged him. “They’re Brianna’s grandparents on the other side.”

  “Oh, sorry.” Unfazed, Roger stuffed another cracker into his mouth.

  “What’s a balebosteh!” Vail asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. Marla could have hugged him. He’d been making a sincere effort to learn the Yiddish words her family tossed into everyday conversation.

  “It means a good hostess or homemaker,” Anita explained.

  Brianna, who’d been on the telephone in Marla’s bedroo
m, sauntered in to join them. “When are we eating? I’m starved.” She wore flip-flops with her khakis and red cotton top.

  “The bread isn’t ready yet,” Marla told the teenager, wondering where Georgia had gone. She’d run out to invite their neighbor but hadn’t returned. No one was keeping an eye on the oven, and the aroma of toasted garlic grew stronger with each minute. She’d better take a look at the timer. “Anyone care for a drink refill?”

  Larry cleared his throat. “I could use another gin and tonic, and I think we need more potato chips. Did you get the pork rinds on my list, by any chance? They’re my favorite.”

  Marla pursed her lips. He should know that she wouldn’t keep pork products in her house. Had he said that to provoke her, or was he simply ignorant?

  Vail strode forward. “Come on, Marla, I’ll give you a hand with the food. I need another beer anyway.”

  Barry detached himself from his holding spot. “Would you like me to open the Chianti that I brought? Red wine is more appropriate with our meal.”

  “I could use a glass, thanks,” Marla said with a grateful grin.

  She glanced at Vail, ruggedly handsome in black jeans and a slate gray sweater that matched his smoky eyes. His intense expression went along with his clenched jaw. Clearly he didn’t like having competition present, and Barry had done everything he could to enhance their differences. The optometrist looked like a surfer with his sandy hair and tanned skin, an image he’d embellished by wearing Tommy Bahama apparel.

  She bustled into the kitchen, annoyed at both men for hovering at her heels. “Here,” she said, thrusting a set of pot holders at Vail, “you can take the bread out of the oven. Barry, you’ll find a corkscrew in the drawer to your left.”

  “By the way, Marla, I know you’re tied up these days, but I was wondering if you’d like to see Shear Madness with me. I’ve got an extra ticket. That is, if your boyfriend wouldn’t mind.” Barry’s twinkling blue eyes aimed a challenge at Dalton, whose smoldering expression would have made a rookie cop quake.