by Clea Simon
It’s always good to be loved. It doesn’t always happen. No relatives were in evidence when I walked into the LiveWell lobby. Despite its almost-chic color scheme, the place was deserted. Well, not entirely: I could hear someone calling bingo from a nearby room, and two women—at least one of them evidently deaf—were loudly discussing an upcoming daytrip to one of the casinos over the border. But the family members who were supposed to be appeased by the fancy decor were missing. The only person in sight under the age of sixty was the receptionist. She looked like the one I’d checked in with yesterday. Young and blonde, with a little too much eye makeup for the setting, she nodded at me as I walked in, and then turned back to the magazine she had opened on the calendar blotter. I didn’t know if she remembered me, or if I looked benign. Considering my suspicions, I thought a little more caution might be advisable.
Not that I wouldn’t take advantage of the situation. “Hi,” I approached the desk with a big smile. “I’m looking for Jean Cherry?” I could see the clumps in her mascara as she blinked. “I believe she’s working with Rose Danziger this morning?”
“Oh, yeah, Jeannie.” She nodded again. “Rose’s aide.”
I stood corrected as she consulted a clipboard decorated with the LiveWell logo.
“They should be in Rose’s room, 204.”
I thanked her and headed for the elevator with a little extra spring in my step. I wasn’t crazy about interrogating the aide. I remembered my mother’s last days all too well and suspected what she’d been through. Plus, I had been hired by her last client’s relatives, which would add to any natural reticence the aide might feel about talking with me. However, the room number was promising. As Polly’s neighbor, Rose might have seen something.
I was in luck: 204 was right across the hall from the late Polly Larkin’s apartment, the numbers set in that overdone logo.
“Coming!” The voice sounded about the right age, and I was encouraged by its vigor. “One moment!”
But any hope I had of Rose Danziger having seen something was dashed, as the door swung back to reveal a pale and tiny figure in dark wrap-around glasses, holding onto the harness of a guide dog.
“Rose Danziger?” I addressed the woman. The dog held its place by her side, but I could sense the animal—a dark shepherd-mix by the look of the long, intelligent face—sniffing me, sizing me up. “Cat, person, dog, dog…raccoon? ” This canine companion had a good nose.
“The one and only.” The woman by the dog’s side looked up at me as if she could see me, a big smile on her dried-apple face. “And who might you be?”
“Pru, Pru Marlowe.” I held out my hand and felt, as much as saw, the dog go on alert. So I turned it, palm up, for him to sniff. He craned his neck, but didn’t take so much as a step from his person’s side. The ears, they were pure German shepherd, large and sensitive. So was the focus. The size was a little off, a little short in the body, and I put that down to the crossbreeding, but he reminded me of Cousteau, my neighbor’s dog back in New York.
Cousteau hadn’t been a happy pup. I’d finally convinced his macho owner to have him neutered. Even with his lusts contained, though, he was bored. These are work dogs, happiest when they have a task that they can accomplish. Right now, this dog was occupied judging my role in his person’s life to determine if I was a threat. While he made his mental calculations, I made a few of my own. I’d get to the aide. First, I wanted to talk to the neighbor. Blind or not, she seemed quite alert. “I’ve been hired by Jane, Polly Larkin’s daughter, to help with the parrot.”
“Oh, Jane. Jane and Randolph. What a fakakta cock-up!” She turned with a gesture that seemed to dismiss the whole family. The dog made a larger circle around her so as not to trip her up. I got a sense of herding, of sheep, as if Rose were a young ewe rather than a white-haired human. Cousteau would have loved this gig. “Come in.”
“You know her?” I followed the little woman into a room that would have almost mirrored the one across the hall, if it had been filled with boxes. This one looked a little smaller, but felt more spacious, one end made into a neat little parlor with a short cream loveseat and two off-white chairs. Rose settled into one, the dog lying by her feet, a sense of deep contentment coming off him like warmth from his fur. I admired his training. I wasn’t even getting any sense that he was tempted to jump up on the remaining chair. “Jane Larkin?”
“Of course I knew Jane. Polly and I were friends.” The old lady turned and called into an alcove. “Jeannie, did I know Jane?”
A young woman, very tall and ebony skinned, stepped into the living room, holding a small tray with a teapot and a plate of cookies on it. “I don’t recall you ever calling her by her right name, Rose.” She ducked back into the kitchenette and returned with three mugs. “Not in my hearing.”
I was trying to place her accent as she sat in the remaining chair. No mistress-servant relationship here, then. Not with the aide, at least; the dog didn’t even look up as she passed the plate of cookies, and when I tried to reach out with my thoughts I was rebuffed. “We are sitting.” Yes, I figured that much.
“Oh?” I figured the women would be a better bet, and primed the pump as the aide handed me a mug. Chamomile from the smell of it. Well, I’d survive.
The old lady and the young turned toward each other silently, as if to share a look, and then the aide burst out laughing. The dog remained silent.
“Jeannie thinks I’m an old bitch.” Rose leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. The dog shuffled slightly. Taking in her movement, that was all. “She knows what I’m talking about, though.”
I nodded and turned toward the aide. “So you must be Jeannie Cherry.”
She nodded, her mouth full of cookie. Rose, however, corrected me. “It’s Genie”—she softened the word, changed the accent—“not ‘Jeannie.’ It’s short for Eugénie, as in Napoleon’s empress.” She reached for a cookie and motioned for me to take on. “And her last name’s Cherie. Like the drink, if you can’t speak French.”
“My apologies.” Haitian, of course. That slight lilt was Creole. I wondered how many other residents here would respect the young woman’s heritage. “Genie. But dare I ask?”
I raised my eyebrows and left the question open, taking a bite of cookie. These two seemed ready to gossip, and the cookie was surprisingly good—a crisp lemon wafer dusted with confectioner’s sugar.
Genie looked over at Rose, and I wondered if I’d gone too far. It’s one thing to correct a third party about a mispronunciation. Another thing entirely to badmouth a client’s family—even a former client.
“Rose believes that Jane is a—a milksop,” Genie said, after a brief pause, obviously making an effort to use different language than Rose favored. “No family of her own. No independent life.” The aide shot a look at her charge. “I think she was a good daughter, doing what she could.”
“She used her mother as a tired-ass excuse.” Rose gestured with her mug, coming just short of spilling the hot tea. “Polly didn’t need that much care. Not till the end. And even then that washed-out overgrown girl didn’t do anything that you weren’t capable of doing much more efficiently.”
Genie sighed and nodded. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion, I’d have bet. No wonder the dog remained so calm. “But she wanted to do it, Rose.” The emphasis was gentle. “Polly was her mother. It’s different when it’s your family.”
“Genie doesn’t want to say how clumsy that girl was. She made Genie’s job harder. I know, I heard it all.”
“Bathing Polly. Getting her dressed. It wasn’t what the girl was used to.” Genie gave her that. “She was there every day,” she said to me. “She wanted to be of use.”
“Everyday?” I looked from the aide’s unlined mahogany face to Rose’s white-on-white wrinkles. It was easy to forget that eye contact didn’t matter with the old lady. “She didn’t have a job?”
“She quit her job when—” Genie didn’t get a chance to finis
h.
“She was fired again, the stupid cow. Like what happened the last time.” Rose took another cookie and turned as if to stare at me. “That girl had no life, and taking care of her mother was her excuse for not having one. Not like her brother, Marc.”
Genie was shaking her head, and Rose turned. For an uncanny moment, I wondered if she was faking her blindness. “You know what I’m saying, Genie. I could see it. Hell and damnation, even Buster here could see it.”
She reached down and gently patted the dog by her side. It was the first time she’d acknowledged the dog, a fact I put aside for later. For now, I looked at Genie, but she only continued shaking her head. I waited for her to say anything, but the moment passed, and I didn’t want to break up the collegial mood.
“I met Marc yesterday,” I ventured finally. Rose beamed, but I saw Genie’s lips grow tighter as if she were physically holding words back. I remembered Marc’s accusations and wondered how much he had expressed. Clearly he hadn’t been able to prove anything, or Genie wouldn’t be working at LiveWell. Still, it couldn’t be pleasant to be accused of theft. “He seemed, well, a bit on edge.”
“Being with that useless sister drives him batty, that ignorant slut. He’s a doll.” I was beginning to see where the parrot got his language. But I’d get back to the bird. For now I turned to Genie, waiting for her response. When none came, I smiled, as if that might disarm her. “You’re not crazy about him, are you?”
“She thinks Marc was just after Polly’s money.” Rose broke in before Genie could respond. “She thinks he tried to have her fired, even though I keep telling her otherwise.”
I looked at Genie, but her face had gone as blank as the dog’s.
“She thinks Marc wanted his mother dead.” The old lady broke one of the cookies in half and reached down to offer it to the dog. “She thinks Marc murdered my old friend and that he’s going to get away with it.” With an audible snap, the dog grabbed the cookie, and we sat there, the only sound the wet munch of Buster, enjoying his treat.
Chapter Seven
I’d have loved to grill the old lady further. Despite her blindness—and questionable judgment about her friend’s son—she was an observant old coot, and I trusted her memory, especially when it pertained to her late friend. Unfortunately, Genie had her own ideas. No sooner had we all caught our breath than the aide jumped up and began to hustle her charge out the door.
“Look at the time!” Genie consulted her watch, which might have been a bit of pantomime for my benefit. “Rose? We have to go.”
“The casino trip?” I had an image of the blind woman at a card table. It made me smile.
“Oh, no.” I could have sworn the old lady had read my mind. “I don’t do that silliness. That’s all—”
“Rose?” Genie interrupted her before she could say more. “We can’t keep Dr. Wachtell waiting.”
Buster stood, his senses alerted by Genie’s actions, if not by her words, and watched as Genie hurriedly stacked the cups and returned the tray to the kitchen area. Looking down at the dog’s bright black eyes, I realized I’d missed an opportunity. The shepherd mix had an extremely narrow focus—a necessity for the job, I figured—but if his mistress had strong feelings about what was going on across the hall, he would have picked up on something.
“May I help?” I was stalling, trying to think of an excuse to tag along and continue the conversation.
“No thanks. The doctor’s office is in the complex.” Rose reached for my arm and once again looked up at my face as if she could see me. “I would take my sweater, though.” She made to get up—this was her home base, after all—but the aide was quicker.
“I’ve got it.” Genie strode over to a closet, moving fast enough so that I almost believed they were late for an appointment.
Rose sighed, but waited, still hanging onto my arm. “You should come again.” Her grip was firm. “We can talk about Randolph—and about Polly.”
“Rose?” Genie had the sweater over her shoulders and was gently pushing.
“I will.” I nodded to the old lady, not caring that she couldn’t tell. “Thanks for the tea and cookies.” This I directed to Genie. “And the conversation.”
Genie lifted her eyebrows at that, and continued to hurry her tiny client toward the door.
“I’ll be by tomorrow.” I called after them.
“Rowf.” Buster barked once, softly. “Plans,” I translated. “Don’t distract us.” But Rose had invited me back, and no matter what Buster or Genie thought, Rose was still the boss in that apartment.
***
I watched them head down the hallway and waited while they got into the elevator. Chasing after them was pointless, but I was curious to see how they interacted. Genie’s interruption certainly seemed timed to shut Rose up when the old lady wanted to say more, and I had to wonder what she was on about. The old woman clearly liked her—hell, I had too—so why didn’t Genie want Rose to talk to me?
It could have been anything. Genie knew I was working for Jane Larkin. Maybe she was afraid I’d carry word of gossip across the hall. Maybe she was afraid I’d piss off the mourning daughter. Maybe the Larkin family still owed her money. The fact that Genie’s services seemed to have been arranged through LiveWell made it unlikely that she’d be invoicing separately, and I didn’t get the sense that Jane Larkin was one to welch on a bill. Marc, well, maybe he did think his mother’s care was costing too much. I remember thinking something similar when I got the itemized expenses for the home hospice care. Didn’t mean I’d killed anyone over it, or even shirked on my bills.
I was in the hallway for so long that the voice behind me made me jump.
“Oh! You are there!” It was Jane Larkin. I checked my watch. Sure enough I was ten minutes late for our appointment. “I was wondering if you’d gotten delayed.”
“I’m sorry.” I put on my best contrite smile. “I ran into someone. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”
“That’s okay.” She turned and led me back into her mother’s apartment. Now that I’d seen another unit, I realized that Polly Larkin must have one of the larger studios. Not that this apartment was what you’d call spacious, crammed as it was with boxes and furniture. It did make me wonder just how much LiveWell cost—and how tight money was for the Larkins. I couldn’t exactly ask the faded woman, who was now bent over assembling a box.
“I’m going to start with the parrot now,” I said instead. “Will you be staying?” I couldn’t think of a nicer way of asking, and scrambled for an excuse to get her out of here. “I usually work with the animals alone.” I paused. “I mean, in private.”
She looked up, her pale face lined with worry. “I’ll be quiet, I promise. It’s just, well, I really need to finish the packing. Besides, Randolph is used to me.”
A low whistle from the cage said it all.
“That’s the problem.” I was grasping at straws. “I need to break him of habits. Get him thinking in a new way. And it’s too cold for me to take him outside.”
“Oh.” She put down the tape dispenser. “I didn’t—”
What she didn’t do was finish her sentence. I wasn’t going to make it easy for her and stood there, hovering. Inside his cage, Randolph muttered. “Crap. Crap in your hat.”
I tried not to smile, but the colorful expression did the trick. “Wait here.”
I hoped she’d come back from the closet with her coat on. Instead, she held a key.
“You can take Randolph across the hall. Mother and her neighbor were friends, and Mrs. Danziger always took Randolph in when the cleaning crew was here. She won’t mind.”
I opened my mouth to object. To explain. Anything—and shut it before Jane could notice. She didn’t need to know I’d already met Rose. The blind old lady was out at her appointment.
“She’ll probably be grateful for the company,” Jane’s confided, her voice lower. “She’s almost ninety and blind as a bat, and I think the lack of mobility is making her a
bit nuts.”
“She’s the woman with the seeing-eye dog.” It seemed sensible to establish that I knew of the neighbor. “German shepherd mix.”
“Oh, of course.” She looked at me as if I’d said something witty. “Of course you’d notice that. But don’t worry, the dog isn’t dangerous.”
I didn’t know whether she honestly thought a trained service dog would threaten a person, or if she was referring to Randolph. But I took the cage down from its hanger as she asked and followed her across the hall. She was knocking, and I went through the charade of waiting for an introduction, all the while keeping my eye on the elevator at the end of the hall.
“She must be out. No matter.” Jane tried the door. It wasn’t locked. “She and Mother were in and out of each other’s places all the time,” she said, pocketing the key. “There, now you can have some peace and quiet.”
Not knowing what else to do, I stepped back into the parlor I’d vacated only a few minutes before. Jane headed for the door, pausing only to call back. “Don’t worry if she comes back while you’re here, Pru. She’s a little past it, if you know what I mean. But she won’t freak out on you. There are people in and out of the units all the time, here. They don’t even allow you to have a deadbolt put on, just in case there’s, you know, an emergency?”
With that she closed the door behind her, and I took a seat. She was my client, and I was supposedly booked for the next hour to work with Randolph, who was still muttering various scatological phrases, his big beak working as he turned his head side to side, taking in his surroundings with those strange yellow eyes. I wasn’t thinking about the bird’s dirty mouth, though. What I was realizing was that security in this pricey community was virtually nonexistent. If someone were stealing from Polly, the pool of potential suspects was building-wide. More, even, if you counted all the outside contractors who must come in each day with only a smile to the receptionist. And while Jane had confirmed her mother’s friendship with the elderly neighbor, she had also cast doubt on her perception. Not to mention her sanity—and, possibly, her motives.
