Suitable for Framing

by Edna Buchanan

  I settled on a brocade love seat, sipping my Dubonnet and still gazing out toward the sea. Beautiful nights like this one always made me think of McDonald, wondering where he was, who he was with, and if he ever thought of me.

  Trish emerged, pink-faced, wearing oven mitts and carrying a long dish covered by a pink linen napkin.

  “Told you it would be ready in a jiff.”

  “Sure you don’t need help?”

  “Absolutely. The kitchen’s only big enough for one.” She placed the dish on the table, covered in rosy linen and set with bone china.

  “How long have you had this apartment? It’s perfect.”

  “Isn’t it?” She poured herself a club soda, perched gracefully on a settee, and gazed around the room. “If only it was my apartment. But no such luck. A friend back in Tulsa knows the owners and I’m house-sitting. Once they arrive for the season, I’ll be out on the street.”

  “Too bad, you must hate to give this up.”

  “You know it, but I’ve sure enjoyed staying here. And”—she grinned and raised her glass—“now that I have a reporting job, maybe I’ll be able to afford something as nice.”

  “Well, it may take awhile,” I warned.

  “Oops, I almost forgot.” She reached into the pocket of her shorts for something wrapped in a fold of white tissue paper. “This is for you.”

  Startled, I unfolded the paper, and a delicate pendant on a silver chain dropped into my lap. “What’s this?”

  I held it up. A spider web had been spun through a circular silver rim, leaving a small opening in the center. Caught in the web was a tiny turquoise chip. Hanging from the bottom was a perfect little silver feather.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “That’s because it’s one of a kind, handmade by a Native American friend, a Comanche I did a favor for, back in Oklahoma. It’s a dream catcher.”

  “A what?”

  “Good dreams are caught in the web, trickle down the feather, and bring you good fortune. Bad dreams pass right through that hole in the middle. The turquoise is for protection. It worked for me. I wore it for a long time. No bad dreams. I want you to have it, Britt.”

  “I couldn’t possibly, Trish. It’s fascinating, but it was a gift to you from a friend.”

  I held it out, silver glinting in the palm of my hand. She shook her head and closed her fingers over mine. “And now it’s a gift to another friend. You’ve done so much for me, Britt. I want you to have it.”

  “If you’re sure,” I said hesitantly. I fastened the chain around my neck. I loved it, but I felt a little guilty. All I had done was encourage her. She probably would have landed the job anyway, with her determination.

  “Why were you so set on Miami?”

  She looked surprised at the question. “You don’t win Pulitzers working in Oklahoma.”

  “That’ll take awhile too.” I smiled at her enthusiasm. “But seriously, there are lots of good news towns. Why Miami?”

  “For the same reasons you love it, Britt. The people back home are glued to their TV sets, watching Geraldo and Oprah. The people in Miami appear on Geraldo and Oprah.”

  We both laughed.

  “Sit down and I’ll feed you.”

  She unfurled the pink napkin, exposing a loaf of golden brown bread, sliced it, and I nearly swooned.

  “I thought you said this would be something simple!” A crisp crust stuffed with cheese, pepper, and onion. “You made this?”

  Her two-handed gesture was breezy, as though it was nothing. “It’s a lot easier than it looks, an old family recipe.”

  Tiny roasted potatoes and crisp green beans nestled around the perfect chicken. She opened a bottle of Chardonnay. “To Pulitzers,” she said exuberantly, as our glasses clinked.

  “If reporting doesn’t work out, you can always break into the bread business. You could sell a ton of this stuff and make a fortune. It’s out of this world.”

  “Don’t even suggest that this job won’t work out.” Her smile faded. “I’m scared to death and it’s no joke. If I don’t make it I’m in big trouble. I can’t go back home.”

  “Why?” I sipped my wine. “Your old paper’d take you back in a New York minute. Probably even pay you more money. Sometimes you have to quit and go back to be appreciated.”

  “No.” She shook her head, luminous gray eyes fixed on her plate. “I can’t go back. There’s something you don’t know. I had a bad experience, and I’m afraid…”

  “Afraid? What happened?”

  She took a deep breath. “You see—”

  Sudden shouts and pounding cut off her words.

  The commotion came from the corridor outside. A man’s quavering cries, murmuring voices. A door slammed.

  Our startled eyes met. “Jesus, what’s going on?” She rose, turned off the stereo to hear better, and darted to the door.

  “Wait, Trish,” I cautioned, following. “I wouldn’t open it until you’re sure.”

  On tiptoe, she peered through the peephole. “What in tarnation?” She threw off the safety chain and swung the door open.

  Right behind her, I glanced around the room for the telephone, in case we needed it.

  The shouts were louder now. “Ellie, Ellie! Where are you? Come out. Come back. Ellie!”

  Trish stepped into the hallway and I followed. Breathless and agitated, an elderly man in yellow Bermuda shorts was shouting and pounding on doors. A gaggle of perplexed tenants trailed in his wake.

  “Did you see her? My Ellie. Where is she?” A child must be missing, I thought. In a manner of speaking, that turned out to be the case. Trish took command. She intercepted him, grasping his wavering hands in hers.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “How can we help you?”

  “My Ellie.” His eyes were wild. “She’s not there. She wandered out again. This time she’s gone. I can’t find her.”

  “She has Alzheimer’s,” somebody said. “She doesn’t know where she is sometimes.”

  “Don’t worry,” Trish said reassuringly. “We’ll find her.”

  “She’s not herself. She could be down on the beach. The ocean!” He groaned. “She was taking a nap, so I went to the card room. She must have woke up and come down to find me … lost her way.”

  The security guard emerged from the elevator. “She’s not in the lobby, but she might have gotten by. I checked the pool.”

  Tears streaked the old man’s mottled cheeks.

  “What was she wearing?” I asked.

  He looked bewildered, then bit his lip. “A blue dress, pale blue, and house slippers.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seventy-one.”

  “Somebody check the roof,” I suggested, “and the stairwells.”

  “She’s confused.” He started to cry, his sobs ragged. “She doesn’t know where she is, who she is. I never leave her alone. But I needed … I went out for a card game, for just a little while.”

  “Of course,” Trish crooned. Her arms circled his thin shoulders. “You need a break once in a while. We all do. We’ll find her.”

  I ran back through the apartment to the terrace. No elderly woman in a blue dress below. But the beach was dark and full of shadows; she could be anywhere. Traffic is heavy on Collins.

  “Call the police,” I told the security guard.

  He rolled his eyes and looked reluctant. “Last time they didn’t show up for forty-five minutes and we’d already found her.”

  “Right,” I said. “But if she’s a wanderer they may have already picked her up. If so, they won’t know where she belongs.”

  He called from Trish’s phone. Ellie hadn’t been picked up, but her description was broadcast to the zone cars. Short gray hair, five feet four inches, 125 pounds, with a slight limp. Most neighbors had returned to their apartments, though a young couple did offer to check the beach. The guard said he would search the roof. “Is ther
e any way she could have gotten the elevator door open?” I asked quietly, remembering a missing octogenarian found at the bottom of an elevator shaft.

  The guard said no.

  No sign of Ellie in the laundry room. Nothing.

  While Trish comforted Ellie’s husband, whose name was Ben, I decided to do a floor-by-floor down to the street.

  “Wait.” Trish took me aside, her face intent. “Let’s brainstorm, Britt. Her husband says she has a bad hip and tires easily, but didn’t take her cane. You know”—light gleamed in her gray eyes—“little children missing from home are usually found much closer than anybody expects.”

  True. I had covered my share of stories where searchers beat the bushes miles away for a tot who was home all along, hiding in a closet or at the bottom of a murky family pool.

  “Let’s remember that advanced Alzheimer’s patients are like little kids.” She turned calmly to the husband. “What’s your apartment number, Ben?”

  He gestured to an open door halfway down the hall. “Five-fourteen.” His voice trembled.

  “Let’s start there.”

  Made sense to me. Neat apartment, drapes drawn, television still blaring to an empty room, prescription medicine neatly arranged on a kitchen counter. We checked beneath the bed and in every closet and cabinet, as Ben flailed his arms frantically, insisting, “I looked! I looked! She’s not here. Ellie. She could be in the ocean. Ellie,” he moaned. “It’s my fault.”

  We found a stack of adult diapers in the bathroom, more evidence that late-stage Alzheimer’s patients are like helpless children. She was not in the apartment.

  Undaunted, Trish led us back out into the hall. “I want to check the storage bins under the stairs,” she said, moving quickly toward the fire exit.

  She propped open the fire door and we descended a flight. Beneath the stairwell were numbered and padlocked storage lockers for residents. “These padlocks all seem intact.” Trish’s voice echoed in the poorly lit stillness. I held Ben’s arm tightly on the stairs. This was a bad idea, I realized. What if he falls? What if somebody closes the fire door, trapping us? Most victims of geriatric dementia wander away in search of their primary caretaker. She wouldn’t look for Ben down here.

  “Here’s one without a lock.” Trish’s voice came from below. The hinges of a wooden door protested loudly.

  “Omigod, omigod, she’s here! Britt! She’s here!”

  I clung to Ben as we scrambled down the last few steps. Trish was on all fours, reaching into the tiny space, no more than 22 inches wide, by about 28 inches high and not quite 24 inches deep. The missing woman filled the cubicle, curled into a fetal position, knees beneath her chin.

  “Ellie!” Ben sat down hard on the stairs, out of breath and panting.

  I rushed to help Trish, who had tugged the woman’s arm and now grasped her beneath the shoulders, trying to free her from her small prison.

  “She must have shut herself in there and couldn’t get out,” Trish said, grunting. “There’s no latch on the inside.”

  “It had to be stifling,” I said. “There’s no ventilation.”

  The woman lay supine, her blue dress rumpled and soaked by sweat and urine, bare feet still inside the enclosure. “Jesus, she’s not breathing!” Trish’s face was white.

  I slipped my fingers into the groove at the woman’s neck. Her skin felt clammy, her lips looked blue. “I don’t feel a pulse!”

  Trish knelt and turned the woman’s face to one side to clear her airway in case it was blocked. Her fingers explored the slack mouth and gingerly removed a set of false teeth.

  I shivered and turned to Ben, trying to sound calm. “Go upstairs now and dial Nine-one-one. Be careful and don’t fall, but hurry.” I helped him to his feet and propelled him up the stairs. Thank God it was only one flight.

  Trish pinched the woman’s nose, took a deep breath, and began mouth-to-mouth, covering the bluish lips with her own, forcing air into the woman’s lungs. I straddled the still body and began closed heart massage.

  “One-one hundred, two-two hundred, three-three hundred, four-four hundred, five-five hundred. Breathe!”

  I felt her breastbone and fragile rib cage, like that of a delicate bird, beneath the heel of my hand as I tried not to press too hard. I had heard horror stories about overzealous rescuers breaking bones, crushing ribs.

  “One-one hundred, two-two hundred, three-three hundred, four-four hundred, five-five hundred. Breathe!” Trish lifted her face, inhaled a deep breath, then began again as I counted. “One-one hundred, two-two hundred…”

  Once when Trish came up for air, she gasped, “Is he calling rescue?”

  “Yes, response time should be only a few minutes.”

  We kept on. It seemed surreal, this almost mechanical teamwork in the shadows of a musty stairwell. The food, music, and camaraderie shared minutes ago seemed like a distant dream.

  “Getting anything?” Trish gasped.

  I searched for a pulse. Nothing.

  “Keep going,” I said. “Keep going. At least till they get here.”

  It went on forever. Slowly I began to realize that we were alone in the semidarkness with a corpse. This wasn’t working. She was lost. We were going to fail.

  “One-one hundred, two-two hundred…” I forced myself to think only of the counting.

  Somebody gasped and gagged. I thought it was Trish.

  “She’s breathing! Britt, she’s breathing!”

  Right then, as I found a thin, reedy pulse, there was a clatter at the top of the stairs. Voices, a beam of light from above.

  “They’re here,” I said. “Thank God.”

  By the time the medics loaded up Ellie for the ride to the hospital she was thrashing, muttering, “No, no, don’t, don’t.”

  “Good job,” the rescue lieutenant said. “What the hell were you doing here anyway, Britt?”

  “Visiting,” I said, grinning. “If not for Trish here, we never would have found her.”

  Trish and I high-fived and climbed the stairs arm in arm, both weak-kneed and shaky.

  Our food remained on the table precisely as we had left it which never would have been the case with the bold cat and the ravenous little dog at my place. We both reached for our wineglasses.

  Trish wiped her lips with her napkin. “Whooh!” she said, and shuddered.

  “You were great. What a gutsy thing to do, Trish. Even medics won’t use mouth-to-mouth anymore with everything that’s out there.”

  Her eyes were solemn. “A life is a life, Britt; you can’t just watch it slip away.”

  We drank to that.

  “I’m sorry our dinner is spoiled,” she said. “We’ll have to do it again.”

  “The next one’s on me. But don’t expect me to cook. We’ll go to my favorite Cuban restaurant.”

  “Can’t wait. But there’s still dessert. We’ve earned it.”

  We nibbled poached Bosc pears, buttery and elegant on pink paper doilies, and sipped a fragrant tea from delicate porcelain cups.

  It was over tea that I remembered. “Before everything happened you were about to tell me why you’re afraid to go back home.”

  “It was a man,” she whispered.

  “A bad romance?”

  “This was no romance. Except in his mind.” She put down her cup. “A stalker situation. The man had a fixation. I felt flattered at first but when I turned him down he wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  “But they have stalker laws now.” My voice rose in indignation.

  “Try telling that to small-town cops when the suspect is the only son in a socially prominent politically influential family. They wouldn’t, couldn’t, do a thing, they said, as long as he committed no crime. The man was obsessed.” Her eyes looked haunted. “Middle-of-the-night phone calls, driving by my place, pulling into my driveway at all hours. I’d look up in a restaurant or a store—and there he’d be, staring, big as l
ife, an odd smile on his face. I couldn’t go out. I was scared to death of him,” she said bitterly. “My only option was to run.”

  A not-so-old fear scorched my soul. This time, the fear and indignation was for her, not me. “God, Trish, I know what you went through. Only people who live through it know what it’s like.” I touched the dream catcher suspended from the chain around my throat. “It happened to me. It was horrible. He was a rapist. Thank God he’s in prison and will be for a long, long time, God and the parole commission willing. Even though I know where he is, I still have trouble walking into a public rest room alone. That was his MO; he cornered me in one. I’ll never forget it.”

  She leaned forward intently. “We’re so much alike, Britt, it’s eerie. My stalker is capable of something just as scary, or worse.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “Before I left he was writing ugly, obscene letters—and I found out he had bought a gun.

  “However.” She smiled, chin up. “Yours will grow gray behind bars, and mine’s more than a thousand miles away. His name is Clayton Daniels. He doesn’t know where I am, and I aim to keep it that way. That’s why I can’t go back. I’ve got to make it here.”

  “You will, Trish, for sure.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  As I left the building I met Ben returning from the hospital, accompanied by a married daughter who lived in Surfside. Ellie was going to be all right, or at least as all right as she would ever be.

  The drive home took only five minutes. A storm was brewing over the Everglades, dark clouds mounting. The distant thunder sounded like cannons in a war that was drawing closer. I ignored it. Exhausted, well fed, and righteous, I slept like the dead.

  Chapter Seven

  I slowed down to a crawl every time I passed the Edgewater, scanning the streets for Howie. Slim chance in a fat city, but two nights later there he was. I wasn’t sure it was him at first. He stood at the front door of an elderly woman who was the last holdout against the big-time developers. She had lived there all her life, but her small wooden frame house now resembled a toy, dwarfed by the looming walls of the towering shopping center and high-rise hotel complex surrounding it. Miami pioneer Margaret Mayberry resisted when developers planned the project more than two decades ago. They bought up the necessary properties. Everybody had a price. Then they approached Margaret Mayberry. When she declared she would never sell, they assumed she was simply a shrewd negotiator.