Organize Your Corpses

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I couldn’t imagine what it cost to keep a loved one in a place like Stone Wall Farm, but like Rose, I’d never be able to manage it. Inside the building, the grand foyer smelled of wax and fresh flowers. Soothing toile wallpaper and immaculate wainscoting warmed the entrance. A bird of paradise flower arrangement in a heavy black vase perched dramatically on a demilune table. Behind it, a vast mirror, framed in gold leaf, magnified the works.

  Ka-ching.

  Handrails had been mounted along the walls, but they were painted to match the wainscoting and blended in. I approved of everything I’d seen so far in my visit to Stone Wall Farm. Next my eye was drawn to the broad curved staircase with the polished mahogany banister, sweeping gracefully to the second floor. The corridor above was set off against the dark wood railing. A very appealing picture. Probably not so different from Henley House at the height of its glory. In fact, except for the cutting-edge safety and security details—coded-card system, fire detectors and monitors—Olivia Henley Simonett probably felt right at home here. Of course, she would have to use one of the two elevators set off to the side of the staircase.

  A polished reception area with more fresh flowers lay straight ahead of me. I walked past the formal sitting room to the right. I stopped to observe. Two white-haired women with walkers sat chatting on one of several chintz sofas. Behind them a girl of about twenty with purple spiky hair stared out the window. She wore a uniform that matched her hair, and was holding her fingers in a way that smokers do when they need a fix and can’t get outside.

  A painfully thin man with lank dark hair sat hunched over in a motorized wheelchair in high-gloss red. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-nine, his poor bony shoulders making dents in his T-shirt. He faced a large baroque cage with a pair of small parrots. He was quite obviously upset. I couldn’t make out what he was trying to say, but his agitation was growing. His legs jerked.

  One of the women on the sofa turned toward the girl with the purple hair and whispered to her.

  “Pretty boy,” the green parrot said seductively.

  The blue and yellow one tried its luck with, “Treat time?”

  The girl at the window turned, walked to the young man, and gently pushed his hair back. “You got your hair in your eyes again, dude. You’re going to need to get a do like me, Gabriel,” she said. “And a bit of gel.”

  His answer was unintelligible to me.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, patting his shoulder. “All part of the service.”

  “Thank you,” said one parrot.

  “Snack?” said the other one.

  “May I help you?” a voice said.

  I whirled, expecting a third parrot, perhaps pink. A birdlike woman smiled at me. I recognized that particular smile. It was the type you reserve for prospective clients. I should know. I have my own prospective-client smile. I took a lesson from this woman and reminded myself to let my smile reach all the way to my eyes.

  I did my best to smile back. I’d felt apprehensive coming to Stone Wall Farm, but now I was relieved. The place was immaculate, well run, organized—qualities I love.

  I asked for Olivia Simonett. The birdlike woman gave a small flutter and said, “Oh, I don’t think . . . I mean, well . . .”

  “It won’t take long,” I said confidently. “I just want to say hello to Olivia. I brought her some chocolates.”

  “She’s been very . . . perhaps you shouldn’t . . . so distressing.”

  A bell rang sharply on the desk, and the woman nearly took flight. The bell rang again, and she fluttered down a short hallway to a doorway marked “Executive Director.” A tall woman with smart silver hair stood in the door watching me. From where I stood I could feel her ice blue eyes assess me, before she turned away.

  I shuffled my feet for a moment and then gazed up the long, curved polished wood staircase. I thought I saw a movement. I squinted. Sure enough, I spotted shoulder-length white waves and a flowing flowered garment. Olivia was making her slow way along the upper hallway, with the help of a walker and the sturdy dark-haired attendant, whose glasses still had a definite tilt. I moved without thinking.

  They had just entered a suite when I caught up. The door stood open, revealing a vast and lovely room, full of light and chintz and flowers. A talk show played on the television set.

  The attendant whirled and gasped, “Who are you?”

  “A friend of the family.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right. Marilyn hasn’t been herself.”

  Marilyn? Was I in the wrong spot?

  I stared at the elderly woman who had just slumped into an oversized velvet recliner. She wore a flowered silk dressing gown in soft shades of pink, silver, and fuchsia. Her pink hair ribbon was tied neatly. Despite her unfocused eyes and the white hair, there was no mistaking that splendid Henley nose and eyebrows. This was Olivia Henley Simonett.

  “Olivia,” she snapped at the attendant before snatching up a handful of tissues and blowing her nose. She turned to me and said sadly, “My name is Olivia.”

  “Yes, of course. I know that. And I am Charlotte, Olivia. I brought you some truffles.”

  The attendant flushed a deep and unbecoming red.

  “Olivia, Olivia,” she muttered. “Lord help me. I had another patient named Marilyn, and I guess I am getting old and making mistakes. I am so sorry, Olivia, honey.”

  Olivia giggled. “You are getting old. You sure are. You are a real mess. I know your name, Francie Primetto. You should know mine.”

  The nurse flushed deeper. “That’s embarrassing. I’m new here with Olivia. We’ve had a complicated staff shuffle, and I’m just used to the night shift. Everyone’s asleep in the night.”

  Her patient said, “Now you’re on the day shift, Francie. So you have to be nice to me. You have to remember my name.”

  The nurse’s broad face broke into a smile. “I sure will be. You’re a lovely lady, Olivia.”

  “I am.” Olivia shone her smile at me. “And you are lovely too. Helen used to bring me chocolates. She was always wonderful.”

  “I’m sure she was,” I said.

  “Can I have them? The chocolates? I’ve been good. Haven’t I, Francie? Very, very good.”

  I hesitated a bit. Were there rules here? No chocolates before lunch?

  “I have been good,” she said. “All day.”

  To hell with the rules if there were any. I don’t approve of rules governing chocolate anyway. “I brought them for you,” I said, passing over the small gold-wrapped package.

  “Those are my favorites. Helen brings those.” She pointed to an empty box in the wastepaper basket. “But these are good too.”

  Did I see a sparkle of mischief in those startlingly blue eyes? They gave her quite a youthful look. Perhaps living in a place like Stone Wall Farm, where every physical need is taken care of, keeps you young in some ways. Of course, I was sure Olivia Henley Simonett, if she’d had any choice, would have chosen to live a normal life outside this perfect prison. Even as we stood there, the ribbon seemed to come undone.

  If Helen Henley had lived to be a hundred she would never have let her hair tumble around her shoulders in long, bedraggled white waves. The staff of Stone Wall Farm would have been on their toes. Keep that ribbon tied, you slackers. Or else.

  I don’t know what made me say, “Your ribbon is coming loose. Can I fix it for you?” Olivia Simonett was so fragile and childlike; it made me want to protect her. I could understand Benjamin’s reaction more now that I’d met her.

  “All right. Helen used to do that for me.” Her wavering smile flickered then faded. “But something happened to Helen. What happened to Helen, Francie? Did she die?”

  The nurse reacted. “Oh honey, we’re not supposed to get you upset.”

  As the blue eyes filled with tears, Olivia’s voice soared in panic. “Did Helen drown?”

  Francie caught her breath.

  “Did she? You have to tell me.” If Olivia’s wailing got a
ny louder, they’d hear it downstairs.

  “No. She didn’t, Olivia,” I said. “She didn’t drown.”

  “That’s good. Drowning is the worst. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “No, honey, don’t think about it,” Francie said.

  “But she died though. Didn’t she? Helen died.”

  How many times would Olivia have to be told this? Would it be just as painful every time?

  “Yes, Olivia,” Francie said. “She did.”

  Olivia unwrapped the chocolate box and flipped off the lid. “That’s sad about Helen. Very sad.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Olivia widened her bright, innocent eyes. “Why are people always dying?”

  “There, there, Olivia,” Francie said. “Don’t worry about it, honey.”

  “Randy too. Randy died. Silly Randy. Randy never brought me a present. I thought maybe I wouldn’t get any more chocolates.”

  As I searched for words that wouldn’t make the situation worse, she reached for a truffle. “Oh goody. I like the white ones best. There are three in here.”

  So much for the sad end of Miss Helen Henley.

  I said, “Olivia, do you think your silly cousin Randy would have hidden some papers from Helen?”

  “Randy was naughty. He liked to make Helen mad.”

  “Did he? What would he do?”

  “Tricks, bad tricks. I don’t remember.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about any papers?”

  She frowned. “No. I don’t think so. Randy liked paper. Lots of it. Helen said too much. She was very, very mad at Randy. But she never got mad at me. She liked me. I’m the pretty one.” The hand shot out toward the chocolate box.

  The nurse said, “Oh Olivia, honey, save some chocolate for later. What about your lunch?”

  “I don’t want lunch.”

  “But don’t you want to go down to the dining room with the other ladies? Everyone will be there.”

  Olivia shook her head. “I don’t like those ladies. I want to stay here. I just want chocolates. I want to watch my television.”

  “Honey, you’ll have to wait.”

  Olivia showed her Henley side in a little flash of temper. “You are not the boss. I am the boss. And I want all the chocolates.”

  Francie dropped her hand and shrugged. “All right, but the doctor will give you a hard time and it won’t be my fault. You know you’re not supposed to have much caffeine. You know it . . .”

  “Don’t like this doctor. Let’s get a different one.”

  It seemed like time for me to leave. Olivia was a frail, spoiled elderly child. She was far too damaged to offer useful insights on what Randolph might have hidden.

  Olivia didn’t lift her eyes from the chocolate box as I said good-bye.

  Outside in the hall, Francie thanked me for coming. “She sometimes forgets her manners. Can’t be helped in her condition. I’m glad you came. And not just for that poor lady in there,” she said with a soft laugh. “I needed the break too. It’s been a long week.”

  “That must be very hard on you,” I said.

  “Well, she is really upset about her cousin, even though her behavior doesn’t necessarily show it. She’s quite depressed. I can’t even get her to go downstairs to socialize at all.”

  “You said a long week. Surely you can’t work straight through.”

  “Not usually, but since last week, she’s had terrible dreams in the nights. They’ve had to increase her sleeping drugs, so someone has to be here.”

  I leaned in and whispered, “You mean since Helen, um . . .”

  Francie whispered back, “Even before that, although it sure didn’t help. Olivia gets the best of care. She’s got the money to buy it, and she’s willed most of it to this place, so you can just imagine they make darn sure she’s happy. I got double time and a half since I started with her, so I don’t mind the daybed. Top quality, like everything else here. Mind you, I’m getting a bit too old for this, but I couldn’t say no. My husband’s out of work, so the money is a god-send. And I can’t say I begrudge her that fortune.” Francie’s plump, tired face fell. “Imagine losing your husband and children that way. I’m glad to have my old guy even if he is useless. I shouldn’t joke. Olivia’s lost all her relatives over time. No money can ever replace that.”

  “No.”

  “It makes you grateful for whatever you have. Every relative.”

  That reminded me. I stuck my head back in the door. Olivia peered at me, mischievously. Chocolate streaked her chin.

  “Olivia,” I said, smiling, “do you remember Crawford?”

  The smile slipped, replaced by shock.

  “Your cousin Crawford. You all grew up together. Do you know where he is? Do you know what happened to him?”

  Olivia Henley Simonett flung the chocolate box at the television set. She threw back her head and howled.

  As I settled in on the sofa that evening with Truffle and Sweet Marie, we were joined by Jack, who had managed to score a jumbo package of M&Ms and a week’s supply of tiny green dog treats.

  “Come on,” he said, “snap out of it. How bad can it be?”

  I muttered, “It can be craptacular. First, I got all these calls from nutbars pretending to be clients, and then I had that disaster with Olivia. When am I going to learn not to be so impulsive?”

  “Never, I hope,” Jack said.

  “You’re biased. You think there’s a chance I might say yes to one more dog. But this is serious. I wish I had kept my mouth shut.”

  “What kind of an aspiration is that? You want to be boring? Speaking of boring, how come you haven’t ripped open that package of M&Ms yet? Let’s go wild and eat the red ones first.”

  “When I left, Olivia was still shrieking. The entire staff converged on the scene. Even her dozy attendant was really ticked off with me. She said it would take them two days to get her settled down again.”

  “How could you know that would happen?” Jack said.

  “Maybe I should have used my brains. Found out more about her before I asked upsetting questions.”

  “My guess is the outburst had nothing to do with you. This woman is brain damaged and drugged and quite removed from reality.”

  “I feel terrible. The problem is there’s this one other cousin that no one’s been talking about, and it occurred to me he might be the only person who’d gain from Miss Henley’s death. I simply asked if she remembered this Crawford. That’s what set her off.”

  “My point exactly. Normal people don’t start screaming when they hear the name of a relative, dead or alive. Olivia obviously needs some help.”

  “And don’t you go suggesting that what she needs is a rescued dog,” I said.

  “Go ahead and laugh, lady, but there’s a huge body of evidence proving that residents in seniors’ homes and rehabilitation centers recover faster and improve their cognitive abilities when they have access to pets. So there. Mock that.”

  I thought about the parrots and the young man in the wheelchair. However, I hated to agree with Jack, in case I found myself the temporary owner of the dog in question.

  “My own cognitive abilities allow me to anticipate what you’re up to and say no way.”

  “Don’t get hissy. Let’s talk about it some other time.”

  “Remember the topic at hand. I can’t go back to Stone Wall Farm and ask any more questions.”

  “I’m thinking that’s a positive. And here’s a little challenge for you, Charlotte.”

  I snapped, “What?”

  “Miss Henley is dead. Let it go.”

  “But I feel guilty about the money.”

  “What money?”

  “She gave me an advance. Didn’t I tell you that? I put it in the bank that same night. But I didn’t really earn it.”

  “What was it? Some kind of retainer?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your problem? The money’s yours. Legally.
And ethically. You held up your end of the bargain. Trust your neighborhood philosopher on that.”

  “If I can find those papers, then I’ll feel better.”

  “Miss Henley no longer cares about the papers or whatever they are. Anyway, you don’t have access to the house.”

  “Maybe that’s true. But those documents were important to Miss Henley. They may also be important to Olivia Simonett.”

  Jack slapped the side of his head. “Call me crazy, but didn’t you just burn that bridge? So, if you got the guilties, you can return the money to the estate or you could donate it to a worthwhile charity, say . . .”

  “An animal rescue foundation?”

  “Why not? So far, you’re just stirring up trouble. That way you could have a clear conscience.”

  “I don’t know what it’s going to take to clear my conscience.”

  Jack said, “Oh I get it. You feel bummed out because you didn’t respond to Miss Henley’s totally absurd and manipulative demand that you meet her in the middle of the night.”

  “If I had just gone out to meet her instead of sitting here eating chocolates, she’d probably be alive now. So excuse me, I think I have a right to be upset. So let me deal with it in my own way. Hang on a sec.”

  Jack said, “Don’t answer the phone, Charlotte. It will just be another crank pretending to be a client. Just chill out.”

  I picked up the phone and said, “Charlotte Adams here of Organized for Success. First let me tell you what I have to say about Miss Henley: not a single word. None whatsoever. And that’s final.”

  “This is Inez Vanclief.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “I am the executive director of Stone Wall Farm.”