“I’m going to give you the name and number of a social worker I know at Pine County Hospice,” Doc said. “Talking to her doesn’t mean you’re signing your mother up; you’re just getting all the information you need to make an informed decision. You need to know what your options are.”
“I don’t want them to come in here and shoot her full of morphine,” Scott said. “She wouldn’t want that.”
“First of all, no one can do anything without my permission,” Doc said. “Even if you sign her up today I’m still her primary physician and everything they do has to be run by me. Second of all, I’ve worked with PCH for over twelve years and I’ve never seen even one instance of them over-medicating a patient. There are strict guidelines that have to be followed, and they are subject to the same accreditation requirements as the hospitals. Thirdly, your mother will decide how much or how little pain medication she needs. She may want less medication and tolerate more discomfort in order to be coherent longer. It will be up to her, with my guidance. So don’t make that the reason you don’t call for help. That’s a common fear about Hospice, but it’s not a fact.”
“I’ll talk to my sister about it,” Scott said.
“Your mother is the one dying,” Doc said. “It’s her decision to make.”
It was the first time someone had said it so bluntly and to Scott’s embarrassment, he started crying and couldn’t stop. Doc sat with him while he did.
“I’m only a phone call away,” Doc said before he left.
Scott thanked him, put the phone number on the fridge and anchored it with a magnet. He’d never really paid attention to the magnets on his mother’s refrigerator before. In a weird coincidence, he realized the one he’d used was an advertisement for Pine County Hospice.
After a thorough search of his mother’s less than ideal filing system Scott found her will and her insurance policy. He set the will aside and attempted to decipher the insurance company’s explanation of what they would and would not cover. He considered himself to be of average intelligence, but the policy seemed to contradict itself in several instances, and the complicated stipulations seemed like a grown-up math story problem: “If A is true but B is not met, then C will apply, but only if D is also true.” Within minutes he felt the beginning symptoms of a migraine and took some ibuprofen. He called Pine County Hospice and left a message for the social worker. She called him back within the hour and made an appointment to visit later in the day.
There was a knock on the door and Scott answered it to find Sister Mary Margrethe, sibling to Father Stephen, the priest at Sacred Heart Catholic Church. She was carrying a covered dish. Scott took it from her and invited her into the kitchen.
“Mom’s just had an episode and Doc gave her a sedative,” Scott said. “We need to let her sleep.”
“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing her,” Sister Mary Margrethe said. “That’s one of my broccoli casseroles; you can refrigerate it now and heat it up for dinner.”
“That’s very kind,” Scott said, and put the dish in the fridge.
“I came as soon as I heard,” she said as she sat down at the kitchen table. “You must let me arrange for people to sit with your mother so she won’t be alone.”
“Thank you,” Scott said. “You know Rose Hill’s police force is just me, Frank and Skip. There’s an investigation going on and I really need to be working, but I can’t leave her alone.”
“Let us help you,” Sister said. “That’s what your church family is for.”
“The social worker from Hospice is coming over later to help me figure out her insurance,” he said. “Doc says we need to put her in a facility or sign her up for Hospice.”
“That’s a very hard decision to make,” Sister said. “I’ve seen firsthand how much help Hospice can be to families in this situation; you’ll be glad you asked for their assistance.”
“It’s up to Mom, really,” Scott said. “Penny’s on her way; she can stay for awhile and help.”
“Meanwhile, why don’t you let me stay here this morning, and I’ll set up a rota of ladies to take turns sitting with her.”
“Thank you so much,” Scott said. “I don’t know what I’d do without your help.”
“You always were a conscientious child,” Sister said, “albeit a very fidgety altar boy.”
Claire’s mother insisted she was well enough to go back to work at the bakery but Maggie covered her shift instead. Skip came to the house to pick up Ian and take him to breakfast, and told Claire that he would deliver him to Curtis’s service station afterward. He also offered to take Mackie Pea to his mother’s house. Claire knew Mackie Pea would enjoy spending the day at Skip’s mother’s house, where she would probably eat tons of junk food and get fitted for her new sweater. Claire hadn’t wanted to impose yet again, but Skip assured her that his mother loved Mackie, and it gave his mother something to do with her time.
“She’d take her to raise if you’d let her,” Skip said. “She’s gonna cry her eyes out when y’all go back to California.”
With all her dependents taken care of, Claire left for The Bee Hive. As she passed Meredith’s tea room she noticed all the lights were on, but when she tried the door she found it locked. A sign taped to the interior side of the window promised someone would be back in fifteen minutes.
Further down the block Claire unlocked The Bee Hive and turned on the lights. Her first appointment was at ten, which gave her an hour to prepare. According to the barely legible appointment book there were sixteen clients scheduled with only a one-hour break in the afternoon. It felt to Claire as if she was facing a 5K marathon and was completely out of shape. All her muscles were sore from working in the bakery the day before, so she did some light stretches to warm up.
For her new temporary job Claire had assembled an outfit that was more of a tribute to function than form. She wore a large Fitzpatrick Bakery apron over a short sleeved t-shirt and jeans, the better to protect her skin and clothes from the endless stream of water and chemicals she would be applying to the heads of various Rose Hillians during the day. On her feet she wore her mother’s cushiest tennis shoes: big, puffy, white monstrosities with thick rubber soles and a padded interior that felt like soft feather beds for her swollen feet. She wound her hair up in a twist on the back of her head and secured it with a large hairclip she found in a drawer.
“Morning, Sunshine!” Hannah called as she entered the salon with Sammy in tow.
“Thanks for coming,” Claire said. “Hi, Sammy.”
“No problem,” Hannah said with a wink. “I promised him you weren’t going to try to cut his hair.”
Sammy looked suspiciously doubtful that no shenanigans were planned in regard to his hair.
“Sammy, I want to make a trade,” Claire said.
Sammy clutched his treasure box with a look of alarm.
“How would you like this?” Claire asked, and opened her handbag to remove a dinosaur toy that had been Liam’s.
“Delia lets me play with that all the times,” Sammy said. “I gots lots of dinosaurs at my home.”
“Then how about this?” Claire said, and drew out the sparkly necklace with the Chanel emblem that she would likely never wear again.
“They’s for girls,” he said with disgust.
“How’d you get to be such a chauvinist piglet?” Hannah asked him.
“Okay,” Claire said. “How about cold hard cash?”
“You gots dollars?” the small boy said.
“I gots lots of dollars,” Claire said, and withdrew her billfold. “I have American dollars and euros.”
“What you’s want me’s to trade?” Sammy said.
“The key ring Delia gave you.”
“I never stoled it,” Sammy said, clutching his tin tight to his chest.
“I know you didn’t,” Claire said. “I’ll give you all my dollars and all my coins for that key ring.”
He seemed to consider this.
“Whaddaya say, k
iddo?” Hannah said. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”
“I want that,” he said, and pointed to Claire’s handbag.
“Pocketbooks are for grownup girls,” Claire said, and then to Hannah, “Please forgive me for perpetuating a sexist preconception.”
“No, not that,” he said, still pointing at the handbag, “That!”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Claire said.
Sammy reached over and tugged on the essential accessory that distinguished Claire’s Blue Jean Blue Hermes Birkin handbag from the knock-offs sold on every other street corner in New York. It was a long, slender leather leash also called a “cadena.” At one end was a leather clochette that concealed two small keys; at the other end was a small padlock you could use to lock the handbag. This tether wrapped around one handle and dangled down the front of the bag.
“He just wants the dooflotchy,” Hannah said, as if to say, “what a relief; it’s no big deal.”
“You don’t understand,” Claire said. “I can’t do that. It would ruin the value.”
“It’s just a purse,” Hannah said. “I can get you another one.”
“It cost fifteen thousand dollars,” Claire said.
“It did not,” Hannah said. “Really? For a blue leather purse with a dooflotchy hanging off the handle?”
Up until this moment Claire had never been anything but proud to carry the exclusive handbag, given to her by Sloan as an incentive not to quit after a particularly bad trip to France. Now she looked at the bag and saw what Hannah saw: a baby blue leather purse trimmed with some fancy platinum hardware and a dooflotchy hanging off the handle.
“Here,” Claire said, as she removed the clochette, leash, and lock, and handed them over to Sammy.
His eyes lit up. He put his tin down on the floor so Claire could wrap the leash around his waist and secure it so it wouldn’t fall off.
“This is the most expensive belt any three-year-old has ever worn,” Claire said.
“This me’s police belt,” Sammy said. “This me’s jail lock for bad guys.”
“Really?” Hannah said, as she examined the handbag. “Fifteen grand for this? I paid less than that for my truck.”
The door opened and Claire’s first customer came in. Claire stood up to greet her as Sammy grabbed his tin and dashed out the door before it closed.
“That little stinker,” Hannah said, and jumped up to follow him. “Don’t worry, Claire, I’ll catch him.”
Claire picked up her naked-looking Birkin Bag and stowed it in the supply room. The spell had been broken; it was now just an outrageously overpriced souvenir from her former life.
On her break Claire went over to the bank to pay off her parents’ mortgage. The loan officer turned out to be someone named Amy that Claire went to school with. She looked up Claire’s parents’ mortgage agreement and shook her head.
“I want you to know I didn’t write this,” Amy said. “I would never put someone’s residence in a variable interest mortgage with a six year balloon payment. If it was a development property, maybe, but never on someone’s home.”
“I want to pay it off,” Claire said. “I can write a check or arrange a wire transfer from my bank in Los Angeles.”
“You know your parents only paid twenty-five thousand for that house in 1974?” Amy said. “It’s probably worth six or eight times that now.”
“I didn’t realize real estate values had gone up so much here,” Claire said.
“It’s like beach front property,” Amy said. “There’s only so much ski resort property up at Glencora, so rich folks are buying up anything they can get their hands on within twenty miles. Most of the land in this county and the next is state park property or federally protected. They’re building a new ski resort up at Glencora, and a new highway is supposed to connect it to Interstate 81 in Virginia within three years. Property values in this area are only going to continue to rise.”
Claire filled out the necessary paperwork for a wire transfer, signed several documents, and Amy notarized the paperwork.
“I’ll run these over to your mother to sign later on,” Amy said. “I’ve been meaning to stop by and see her anyway to thank her for helping my mother while she was recovering from surgery last month.”
Claire thanked her and shook her hand after she rose to leave.
“By the way,” Claire asked. “Who did write this mortgage?”
Her friend lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Knox’s secretary,” she said. “Her name’s Courtenay but we all call her Knoxlay behind her back.”
Claire felt her face get hot as she considered this new information.
“Where’s Knox’s office?” she asked.
“It’s on the second floor,” Amy said, “but you can’t go up there without someone using a special key in the elevator.”
“Do you have that key?”
Amy grinned and produced it out of her desk drawer.
There was no one in Knox’s outer office, and his office door was closed and locked. Claire could hear voices inside, so she pounded on the door.
“Police!” she shouted. “Open up!”
The voices were instantly silent and then there was the distinct sound of a heavy door swinging shut, a door that needed to have its hinges oiled. A flustered and red-faced Courtenay fumbled with the lock on the office door before she opened it to the outer office.
“Hi Slutney,” Claire said. “Bonk any of my ex-husbands lately?”
“You!” she said. “What do you want?”
Knox came around from behind his desk, his white face quickly flooding with color.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked her.
Claire pushed Courtenay aside and didn’t stop until she was right up in Knox’s face.
“That mortgage your girlfriend wrote for my parents was criminal,” she said. “I’m going to file a complaint about it with the Federal Reserve; then I’m going to put an ad in the Sentinel and find out if anyone else in this town has been swindled by your bank. I bet there’ll be plenty. We may band together and file a class action suit.”
“I said I would fix that,” Knox sputtered.
“Oh, it’s fixed alright,” Claire said. “I just paid it off.”
“You what?” he laughed. “I didn’t think beauticians made that kind of money. Been selling more than haircuts, Claire?”
Claire reared back and walloped Knox in the jaw and he fell backwards against the desk. She had never hit someone before. She didn’t realize how much it could hurt a hand to do so. It felt broken.
“Yeow!” Claire cried and clutched her aching fist while Knox cursed at her.
“Knox!” Courtenay cried. “Your face!”
“Call security!” Knox yelled to Courtenay.
“Better yet, call the police,” Claire said.
“Don’t call anyone!” Knox shouted to Courtenay. “What is it you want, Claire?”
“I want to know what happened to my friend Tuppy,” she said.
Knox was still rubbing his jaw.
“Don’t just stand there, you idiot; go get me some ice,” he said to Courtenay, who ran out of the office.
“He was already dead in the road when Meredith found him,” Knox said. “I thought we’d better stay out of it, considering we’re just seven months out from the election. Meredith was so upset by what happened she’s experienced a lapse in her sobriety. She left earlier today to admit herself to a private rehabilitation facility, just as a precaution.”
“If she didn’t hit him, why did you pay Pip’s mother to keep quiet about the car?”
“Meredith was so hysterical I had to drive her home. When I returned to retrieve her car it was gone. I discovered your do-less ex-husband had stolen the car when he tried to blackmail me for its return. His mother was much more reasonable to deal with.”
“What did you do with the car?”
“I sold it to a dealer who will break it down
into parts and sell it to multiple body shops. Since I reported it stolen it would be very inconvenient for it to be found. There would be questions.”
“Why destroy the car if she didn’t kill him?”
“When it comes to damage control,” Knox said, “I prefer a scorched earth approach.”
“What did you do to Pip?”
“I suggested that he might want to leave the country for awhile.”
“You didn’t kill him.”
“I’m ambitious, Claire,” Knox said, “but I’m not a monster.”
“I’d like to speak with Meredith.”
“That’s not possible,” Knox said. “No one can speak with her.”
Something about the way he said this sent a chill down Claire’s spine.
“When did she leave?” Claire asked.
“Early this morning,” Knox said. “I had someone drive her.”
“And she went, just like that, gentle as a lamb.”
“She didn’t have a choice,” Knox said, and the look in his eyes was mercenary. “I’ve told you everything, Claire. He was dead when she found him. You can call the police and turn me in for leaving the scene of an accident, but in return it will be very easy for me to implicate you in Pip’s car theft and blackmail.”
“If neither you nor Meredith killed Tuppy then I don’t care what any of you people did or didn’t do,” Claire said. “As far as I’m concerned our business is concluded.”
“Let’s bottom-line it,” Knox said. “I can give you five figures in cash but if you want more we’ll have a paper trail to contend with.”
“I don’t want your money,” Claire said. “I want to know who killed Tuppy.”
“Then let me share this,” Knox said. “There was a dark sedan with New York plates driving around Rose Hill the night your friend died.”
“That doesn’t help me much.”
“I saw the same car parked at the Eldridge Inn this morning,” Knox said. “The driver looked like a thug and the passenger looked like the type that employs thugs.”
“Three piece suit?” Claire asked. “Rolex, slicked back hair, and a goatee?”
Peony Street Page 18
