The Lavender Ladies Detective Agency: Death in Sunset Grove

by Minna Lindgren

  Irma’s daughter had ordered government-issue incontinence pads for her through the geriatric workers’ union, but Irma had returned them, because she had no place to store them. She preferred to keep flowers on her balcony.

  ‘I think the woman’s name is Margit. Is that possible? And I have a feeling her husband’s name is Eino. Eino and Margit? What does your intuition tell you?’

  They couldn’t decide what the new couple’s names were.

  ‘Why does it cost more to pull pants up than to pull them down?’ asked Anna-Liisa, trying to get the conversation back on track.

  ‘Would a skirt be cheaper?’ the Ambassador wondered.

  ‘It’s always easier to take your trousers off than it is to put them on again!’ Reino the Printer shouted, coming over from the drinks machine. He was a greedy-eyed man who always called Siiri ‘the most beautiful girl at Sunset Grove’. Irma claimed that he’d tried to kiss her once in the lift, but Irma said all sorts of nonsense. Reino, pushing his Zimmer frame, rushed upon them with surprising speed. He was wearing hospital slippers and a loose tracksuit. He had a bib around his neck, although it wasn’t a mealtime.

  ‘Isn’t it because of the belt?’ Siiri said, smoothing down her trousers and getting up to leave. ‘It’s harder to do up a belt and buttons than it is to undo them. I mean if the person’s properly dressed.’

  She gathered up her things and put them in her handbag – glasses, handkerchief and mints – and Irma started to do the same. They thought it was a bit revolting that Reino was so dirty; he was always poorly shaven, with gunk between his teeth, hairs poking out of his ears and eyebrows like briar bushes.

  ‘I think a woman’s shirt buttons and bra hooks are easier to open than to close,’ Reino said. ‘It’s the gravitational pull.’

  ‘Rubbish, Reino,’ Anna-Liisa said frostily. ‘You’ve never fastened a woman’s hooks in your life.’

  ‘It has been quite a while. Want to come up to my place? Take a little ride in the lift?’

  That was enough for Anna-Liisa. She snorted glumly and said she was going to the auditorium for a presentation on ‘A Varied Diet for Increasing the Performance of the Aged’. The Ambassador liked the idea, and offered to escort her. He stood up, came gallantly over to her chair with his Zimmer frame, and offered his arm like a cavalier at a ball. Irma winked at Siiri and they headed to the lift together, Irma keen to get away, Siiri still sad and mystified at the news of Tero’s death.

  Reino was left alone at the card table, wondering where everyone was going, and why he had a bib around his neck.

  ‘Nurse! Nurse! Miss! Hello? Help me!’

  But it was no use shouting for the nurses because they didn’t have time to come running to see what was troubling a perfectly healthy person. He tried to take the bib off himself. It was difficult. The string was tightly knotted in the back. The harder he pulled on it, the tighter the knot became. He rose to a standing position and tore the bib free, cursing bitterly, and threw it on the floor. Then he slumped onto the common room sofa, hoping that Siiri Kettunen or one of the other queens of Sunset Grove would appear and entertain him, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 2

  Siiri went down to the ground floor to look for Pasi, the social worker, who was usually in his office. She wanted to talk to him about Tero’s death. Pasi and Tero got along well; she’d often seen them chatting in the kitchen. But now Pasi’s office door was locked and there was a sign taped to it that read: ‘The social worker’s duties will be temporarily performed by the head nurse, Virpi Hiukkanen.’

  Virpi Hiukkanen was a confidante of the managing director, Sinikka Sundström, her right and left hand, a dedicated member of staff who was responsible not just for the residents’ care but also for employee welfare and recruitment. Virpi was a lifesaver, because although the director was a sweet, friendly woman, she was very disorganized.

  A situation like this required cunning. If Siiri asked Sinikka Sundström directly about the cook’s death and the social worker’s absence, Sinikka might think she was accusing her of something. Straightforward communication with the director was sometimes difficult because she carried all the troubles of the world on her shoulders and blamed herself first in every situation. Siiri would have to think up some other excuse for speaking to her.

  She went back to her apartment, watched an episode of Poirot on television, and lay down on her bed for a rest. She imagined that she lived in a 1930s house as beautiful as Poirot’s house in London, surrounded by sleek modern furniture, and was about to fall asleep with Poirot stroking his whiskers, smiling at her with his friendly brown eyes, and lifting a hand to the brim of his hat, when the telephone rang.

  Siiri had to get up because the phone was on a small table near the front door. Many people keep the telephone next to the bed, but Siiri was accustomed to having a telephone table and a chair next to the front door. It was a better place to talk than sitting on the edge of the bed swinging her feet. Plus it was good exercise getting out of bed. But she couldn’t get up very quickly because once she was upright she had to wait a few moments to let the dizziness and the buzzing in her head pass. The phone rang for a long time.

  ‘Hi, it’s Tuukka. You got a cleaning bill that’s a bit peculiar.’

  Siiri had long ago asked if one of her grandchildren could handle her banking on the computer, since she didn’t know how, and her great granddaughter’s boyfriend had kindly agreed to do it. Tuukka was a very pleasant boy who was studying something weird at university.

  ‘Microbial and environmental technology,’ he always said, which didn’t mean a thing to anyone.

  Now he was saying that he’d seen on his computer that seventy-six euros had been taken out of Siiri’s bank account for cleaning. Just for a girl in a black dress to come by and give the middle of the floor a once-over the week before last. Even her lips were painted black, and her hair was dyed blacker than the night sky.

  ‘She didn’t say a word to me, standing there leaning on her mop.’

  ‘The bill says it’s for two hours,’ Tuukka said. Being a businesslike man, he didn’t comment on the cleaner’s appearance or behaviour.

  ‘That creature was only here for half an hour, if that. I was here the whole time, looking at the clock.’

  Siiri felt pleased after the call. The unreasonable cleaning bill was a stroke of luck, just the excuse she needed to go and talk to the director. She decided to file a written complaint, too, so that she had some sort of official documentation. She had to write it by hand, though, in ballpoint pen on notebook paper, and it didn’t look very persuasive. This from a former typist who’d worked for decades at the National Public Health Institute, touch-typing other people’s scribbles. She knew how to make clean documents with the proper margins, line spacing, and layout, never making an error. She could still remember how upset she used to be when she’d got a letter on paper perfectly only to have the office manager decide to change his greeting, so she’d have to do the whole thing all over again. But typing was a skill that was no longer needed or appreciated.

  When she finished writing her complaint she thought about the title for a moment, then wrote: ‘Doesn’t anybody know how to clean any more?’ and left to take the paper to Sinikka Sundström’s office. On the way there she started regretting the title, since the point was to complain about the bill, not about poor cleaning, although she certainly had reason to discuss that as well. She and the other residents had wondered many times why somebody didn’t take the housekeepers by the hand and teach them how to sweep the dust from behind a radiator and wipe a door frame with a damp cloth.

  The director’s office was on the ground floor at the front of the hallway, right next to the waiting room. Many people thought she had her office there so that she could monitor and spy on the residents. Anna-Liisa insisted that the staff at Sunset Grove had an obsessive need to control everything. From what Siiri had heard, Virpi Hiukkanen’s husband was the worst snoop of them all.


  Erkki Hiukkanen was noticeably older than his wife, a somewhat stupid, lazy man who was referred to as the caretaker, although his official title was probably something like Unit Operations Manager. Erkki had grey hair and would sometimes come in uninvited to change a lightbulb, even though there was nothing wrong with the old one. Or he might come to check the pipes or the ventilator ducts, which seemed to be continually acting up. Everyone had learned that if someone surprised you with a knock on the door it was probably Erkki Hiukkanen in his blue overalls – the only service at Sunset Grove that didn’t cost anything.

  But regardless of what the residents said, Siiri liked Sinikka Sundström. She thought Sinikka sincerely cared about the residents and wanted to do everything she could to keep the place running smoothly. Director Sundström was a typical career-oriented woman who enjoyed making other people feel good.

  Siiri made her way to the director’s office. She found Sundström sitting at her desk, absorbed in something on her computer screen. The room was dimly lit, the dark curtains drawn over the window, an unpleasant-smelling candle burning on the desk. Siiri saw what looked like playing cards on the director’s computer screen, but that couldn’t be right – playing cards on a computer? When she saw Siiri, the director smiled warmly and hurried to give her a hug. Siiri felt swallowed up in the too-deep embrace, lost in folds of clothing and strong perfume. She worried that she might have a sneezing attack. But Sinikka Sundström had studied the science of caregiving and she knew that old people needed physical contact.

  ‘Siiri, dear! How are you?’ she asked, once she had let go. Siiri could once again breathe freely.

  She got straight to the point and handed Sinikka the complaint. She apologized that it was written on notebook paper. ‘Oh, that’s all right. You have lovely handwriting. Just like my grandmother’s. Of course, she died years ago, when I was just a little girl.’

  Sundström read the complaint, raised her plucked eyebrows, and looked worried. She was terribly sorry that such a thing had happened to Siiri and promised to look into the matter immediately, although housekeeping wasn’t actually the responsibility of her office, since it was contracted out. She asked Siiri to sit down and explained briefly that they used a private cleaning company, that Sunset Grove had taken bids from several companies and Muhuv Su Putz and Planck had been far and away the most reasonable and reliable, and that all matters regarding subcontractors were the responsibility of Pertti Sundström in Quality Control.

  ‘Pertti Sundström? Is he a relative of yours?’ Siiri asked, not having ever heard of Quality Control, despite having lived at Sunset Grove for twelve years.

  Pertti Sundström was Sinikka’s husband, and Sinikka said she would be happy to introduce Siiri to him but, unfortunately, he was on a business trip so Siiri would just have to drop her complaint in the suggestion box there in the hallway by the big picture of the rose. That was the wisest course of action, since Pertti took care of all the quality-control issues through his limited partnership.

  ‘His office is in the new development at Fish Harbour, but I can certainly bring this to his attention,’ Sinikka said with a smile, and thanked Siiri for her active interest, because the facility could only improve itself if the residents provided feedback. ‘Even if we do have a five-star quality rating, there’s always room for improvement!’ she added.

  Siiri used the desk for support as she stood up, and then she noticed a folder on the director’s desk with Tero the cook’s name on it. What a lucky coincidence! If she hadn’t seen it, she would have forgotten why she had really come here in the first place.

  ‘Tero Lehtinen. He was a nice man, and a good cook. I wonder, can you tell me what he died of, so suddenly, a young man like him?’

  Sinikka was already on her way out of the room, waving Siiri’s slip of notebook paper, but when she heard Tero’s name she stopped, turned quickly around, closed the door behind her, and hurried over to give Siiri another hug. Her large, wooden necklace pressed unpleasantly against Siiri’s cheek.

  ‘We’re all grieving for Tero,’ Sinikka sputtered. ‘What a tragedy. He was very dear to us.’ She patted Siiri like a beloved pet. When she was finished consoling her, she escorted her out of the door and excused herself, explaining that she had a meeting to attend in town. She continued her lament about Tero’s tragic end as she put on her coat, and Siiri started to wonder if she ought to do something to help the poor woman. But she didn’t know what.

  ‘We’re organizing a therapy group for anyone who feels they need help in dealing with Tero’s death. Would you like to participate, dear Siiri?’ She tossed her colourful scarf over her shoulder with such flair that the fringe brushed Siiri’s face.

  ‘No, thank you. We old people don’t need anything like that, but I’m sure it will be helpful to the staff,’ Siiri said, trying to give the director a reassuring smile.

  ‘Don’t call yourself old! It’s such an ugly word. Well, I’m off. Bye-bye!’

  But Siiri wasn’t satisfied with Sinikka’s response. She was determined to get to the bottom of what had happened to Tero. She must speak to Irma about it.

  Chapter 3

  Irma and Siiri lived in neighbouring one-bedrooms on the second floor of the A wing of Sunset Grove. Their apartments were identical and yet completely different. Siiri had furnished hers very sparsely, while Irma had wanted to bring all the beloved things from her former large apartment into her much smaller one. She had rugs all over the floor, pictures, shelves, ryijy tapestries on the walls, bookcases full of books, a sofa in the living room and a low porcelain-topped table with flowers painted on it that she had done herself in a community education course. There was also a rocking chair, a piano bench in memory of her piano, two zany-looking stools, a dining table and chairs, a television and, of course, rose-printed Sanderson fabric on everything – the curtains, cushions, wallpaper and chair covers.

  The two friends enjoyed a cup of instant coffee and some bundt cake together almost every day at Irma’s place. Irma sat in the armchair in the light of the floor lamp and Siiri sat on the sofa, where none of the lamps from Irma’s childhood home cast any light. Sometimes they popped over to each other’s places in their nightgowns, on a whim. That was the best part of old age – being able to walk around in your nightie, eating whatever you wanted, doing whatever you felt like doing. They’d never eaten so much cake when they were younger.

  ‘Caaake,’ Irma corrected Siiri. ‘It should have a lot of As, so it sounds as good as it tastes. Have some more caaake while I get my pillies.’

  Irma believed that if she took her diabetes pills at the same time she ate her cake, she wouldn’t have to worry about her blood sugar. She could eat three ice-cream cones, one after the other, so long as she popped a pill and drank a little whisky. Siiri took diabetes pills, but she didn’t worry about what a little cake would do to her blood sugar and she’d never stopped to think about whether Irma’s method made any sense.

  Siiri decided that now was the time to voice her concerns to Irma.

  ‘Irma, do you think there’s more to Tero’s death than meets the eye?’

  Irma finished a mouthful of cake and licked her lips before replying. ‘I know you’re upset about it, but we have to get used to people dying at our age.’

  ‘Yes, at our age. But not at Tero’s age. He was far too young.’

  Irma nodded thoughtfully, and Siiri took this as her cue to continue.

  ‘There’s something suspicious going on and I want to find out what happened to Tero. Someone has to.’ Siiri was slightly red in the face; she was getting herself worked up.

  ‘Now dear, there’s no need to get in a state,’ Irma said kindly. ‘What are you planning to do about it?’

  ‘I’m going to investigate!’ Siiri said decisively. ‘And you’re going to help me,’ she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

  Irma laughed. ‘Help you? How? Do you want me to turn into Miss Marple, at my age?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly i
t! Why not? It would give us something to put our minds to. And the police don’t seem to be acting very fast. We owe it to Tero.’

  Irma beamed; Siiri’s enthusiasm was catching. ‘Count me in!’ she cried.

  ‘We’ll solve the mystery. Just leave it to us: The Lavender Ladies Detective Agency.’

  Irma crowed with joy. The name seemed appropriate as Siiri sat there in her mauve jumper. ‘OK, so where shall we start?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you think Pasi’s been on sick leave, since Tero died like that?’ Siiri said.

  But Irma didn’t think Sunset Grove would give anyone sick leave just because a member of staff had died. She said that Virpi Hiukkanen, the head nurse, ran a tight ship, drove the staff to work long shifts back to back, paid poorly and never acknowledged anyone for their work. That was why the young people who worked there were worn out with entertaining and taking care of old people. In a place where nobody else was in any hurry to do anything and nothing ever happened, the staff were always in a dreadful rush. So the nurses got burned out and ended up quitting to find a job that was more fun. Or they went on state sabbatical. Siiri had no idea what state sabbatical was.

  ‘That’s when an employer pays a worker to do nothing for a year,’ Irma explained, but Siiri didn’t believe her. You couldn’t always trust Irma’s stories. She was a bit batty sometimes.

  ‘Sure they do. The employer fills the position with a refugee or somebody who’s unemployed and they get money from the state,’ Irma said. Siiri decided to look it up later.

  Irma had been diligent and found out that there was a funeral service for Tero in two weeks at the old chapel at Hietaniemi cemetery. They both decided to go to the funeral – to pay their respects, and also because they might learn something about Tero’s unexpected death there.

  ‘We can do some of our Lavender Ladies Detecting!’ Irma said. Siiri didn’t like funerals, but Irma always looked forward to social events.

  ‘Let’s invite everyone to Tero’s funeral!’ she said excitedly. ‘We can make it a real autumn outing. We can take the scram, so even you’ll enjoy it.’ By scram, she meant the tram. ‘Where have you been lately on your travel card?’