UNEASY PREY

by Annette Dashofy

  Janie took one look at Zoe and seemed equally as startled. “So what I heard was true. You got hurt by the same men who…”

  The unspoken words, who killed my grandmother, hung between them.

  Zoe fingered her bandaged head. “Afraid so.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Sylvia stepped in. “Of course she’s okay. Everyone knows she’s hardheaded.”

  Grateful for the levity, Zoe gave a guilty-as-charged shrug.

  Janie ushered them in to a tiny living room. A small sofa, one easy chair, a boxy TV, and a couple of end tables with lamps were all the space could accommodate. “I was just looking through Gram’s photos.” She gestured toward an old candy box filled with black and whites on the couch. “Sit down. I’ll bring you both some coffee.” She shambled out of the room.

  Sylvia claimed the chair. Zoe picked up the box, sat, and placed it in her lap.

  “Poor Janie.” Sylvia tsk-tsked. “She’s never had a spare dollar to her name. Yet she raised that boy of hers by herself and took such good care of Oriole.”

  Zoe shuffled through the pictures, glad her vision had cleared. “Yeah. But even in school, she never had anything remotely designer. The other kids used to tease her about getting her clothes at the secondhand store in town.”

  “The ‘other’ kids. Not you.”

  Startled, Zoe met her gaze. “No. I always liked Janie. I loaned her an outfit once to go out on a date. I don’t remember if the evening went well, but she looked great.”

  Sylvia grunted. “One thing’s for certain. She never could have afforded to put Oriole in a place like Golden Oaks.”

  Zoe thought of the lush vegetable garden and the bag of produce the older woman had shoved on her and Earl not so long ago. “Oriole didn’t need to be in a place like that. She did well on her own.”

  “Not so well. She died because she was home alone.”

  The wistfulness in Sylvia’s tone and eyes made Zoe wonder if she was thinking about her own future. Oriole had died because she was alone. Sylvia had ended up in the ER because of the same thugs. “Anyone can fall victim to violence.” Zoe tapped the gauze encircling her head. “Being over a certain age and independent doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doomed.”

  “Maybe not. But it makes you easy prey for these predators.” Sylvia gave a short laugh. “Or uneasy prey might be more accurate.”

  Janie returned with a pair of mugs. Her hands trembled as Sylvia and Zoe each accepted a cup. “I didn’t know how you take your coffee.” Janie dug into her cardigan’s pocket and pulled out a handful of sugar packets.

  Sylvia waved away the offered sweetener. “Black is fine.”

  Zoe accepted a few of the packets, wondering if Janie had lifted them from a restaurant.

  “I can bring you some cream if you want,” Janie said.

  “I’m good,” Zoe told her. “Sit down.”

  Janie slipped the rest of the sugar into her pocket and came up with a cellophane-wrapped plastic spoon, which she handed to Zoe.

  Definitely lifted from a fast-food place.

  Janie lowered onto the couch next to Zoe and pointed at the photo in her hand. Sepia toned from age, the picture showed a much younger Oriole with a dashing man in uniform. “That’s my grandpa.”

  “He was very handsome.” Zoe handed it to Sylvia, who agreed.

  “He died when I was little. Gram always said my mom favored him. Me too, I guess.”

  Something in the hallway to the rear of the house thumped, and Marcus appeared. He kept his head low and glanced at Zoe then Sylvia before looking at his mother. “The guys are going sled riding up on the hill. Can I go?” His defiant tone hinted at a deep resentment at having to ask permission.

  “May I,” Janie corrected. “And I’ve taught you better manners than this. Say hello to our company.”

  Shoulders hunched, the boy nodded at them, mumbling what must have been a greeting of sorts. His gaze came back to his mother. “Well? May I?”

  “Who all’s gonna be there?”

  He rattled off some names.

  Janie looked toward the window. “Okay. But bundle up. It’s cold. And stay out of trouble. Please.”

  With a grunt, Marcus disappeared again.

  “Kids,” Sylvia said.

  Janie rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. He’s a good boy, but he needs a male role model.” She shrugged. “And I can’t provide one.”

  Zoe set her coffee on the table next to her and kept sifting through the photos, handing each to Sylvia. Most were old and faded with images of Dillard back in the days when it was a thriving coal-mining town. A few were newer and in color. She came across one, a posed portrait of Oriole, that looked recent. “Wow.” Zoe held it up to Sylvia. “I never saw her all dressed up like that.”

  Sylvia squinted, tipping her head up and down, apparently trying to find the right focus through her bifocals. “Maybe she was going to church. Some folks still dress up for it, you know.”

  Janie held out a hand, and Zoe turned the photo over to her. “Huh. I don’t remember seeing this one before. It does look recent, doesn’t it?”

  Zoe rested a finger on the photo. “Beautiful necklace.”

  The photo quivered in Janie’s unsteady grasp. “Yes. It is.”

  “Family heirloom?” Sylvia asked.

  Janie opened her mouth. Closed it again. Maybe it was Zoe’s brain fog, but she swore Janie seemed angry. “To be honest, I’ve never seen it before either.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Janie gazed at the photo for several long moments before returning it to the box on Zoe’s lap without further comment. “I guess you never know what you’ll find going through someone’s things. She was my grandmother and it still feels…I don’t know…intrusive.”

  Zoe thought about the comment as she held another bundle of old black and white pictures. Maybe Janie didn’t appreciate them going through Oriole’s mementos. She placed the stack back in the candy box and set it on the sofa between them.

  Sylvia cleared her throat. “I suppose we shouldn’t keep you, dear.”

  Janie didn’t contradict her.

  Zoe took a swallow of coffee. If they were going to leave, wouldn’t it be rude to leave a full cup? But the still-hot brew burned her tongue.

  “We just wanted to stop in and make sure you’re holding up,” Sylvia told Janie.

  There was another reason for the visit too, but Zoe couldn’t remember. Crap. She didn’t like this concussion brain fog stuff. Poor Harry. He lived with worse than this every day.

  “I really should get Zoe home though,” Sylvia continued. “The doctors ordered her to rest.”

  Janie placed a hand on Zoe’s knee. “I’m so sorry. Here you are taking the time to check on me when you should be home in bed.”

  Sylvia wiggled to the edge of the chair and pushed up out of it. “There is one thing we wanted to ask while we were here. How well do you know that reporter? The new one. Lauren Sanders.”

  That was it—the other reason for their visit.

  Janie shifted on the couch, as if she was about to rise, but didn’t. “Not well. Not really. She’s been by here a number of times. At first it was all about Gram. Trying to get her story, you know? But lately she’s just been looking in on me.” Janie managed a weak smile. “Like the two of you. Being friendly.”

  Zoe managed another sip of the hot coffee. “That’s why she was at the funeral home?”

  “I suppose. It was kind of nice. I don’t have a lot of friends. Never had the time or money to go out to lunch before.”

  Poor Janie. Still the quiet mouse she’d been in high school. “Once things settle down, you and I will have to change all that. In fact, let’s set a lunch date now.” Zoe instinctively touched her hip pocket where she kept her phone, only to find it empty. For a moment, she p
anicked, wondering where she’d lost it. Then she remembered. She’d left it in the Krolls’ house when she went to the barn. Her phone had been among the items the thugs had stolen.

  Janie must have misinterpreted Zoe’s scowl. “That’s okay. I know you’re busy.”

  “It’s not that.” Zoe explained about the phone. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I get it back. In the meantime, guess you should call Pete if you need to reach me for anything.”

  Sylvia took the cup from her and picked up her own still half-full one from the end table. “I’ll take these to the kitchen for you and then we’ll get out of your hair.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Janie stood and reached for the cups. “You’re guests. I’ll take them. Besides.” She gave a dull laugh. “I don’t want you to see my messy kitchen.” She headed into the other room. “And yes, I do need to get back over to Gram’s and do some more packing. She had so much stuff.”

  A few minutes later, Sylvia and Zoe sat in her Escort, letting the car warm back up and waiting for the fogged windshield to clear.

  “We didn’t learn a whole helluva lot,” the older woman muttered.

  “She didn’t deny that she and Lauren were friends.”

  “But why is the reporter woman being friendly? That’s what I want to know.”

  Zoe reached over and clicked the defrosters down a notch from high. “When did you become such a cynic?”

  Sylvia gripped the steering wheel, glaring straight ahead. “Since those bastards violated my home and stole my dead son’s stuff.” She shifted in the driver’s seat to catch Zoe’s gaze. “What do you make of that photo?”

  “Which one?”

  “The new one. Oriole dressed to the nines. And that necklace. Didn’t you notice Janie’s reaction to it?”

  “Yeah. Kinda.” The headache had returned, and Zoe closed her eyes. “I think I know what that’s all about though.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know Mr. Troutman?”

  “That old fart who lives a few houses up from Oriole? Everyone knows Trout. He’s another one that doesn’t have two nickels to rub together.”

  “I think he was sweet on Oriole. Maybe they were dating.”

  “Dating?” Sylvia barked a short and sarcastic laugh.

  “He was very concerned when we came to take Oriole away that night. It was…sweet.”

  Sylvia appeared to mull it over. “I suppose it’s possible. They’d both been alone a long time. And they’re neighbors and all.” She dropped the shifter into gear and touched the gas. “I’ll tell you one thing though. The necklace in the picture? That was no gift from Trout. That was worth a pretty penny. He could barely have afforded to buy her something from a dollar store.”

  Saturday afternoon at the Vance Township Police Department was blissfully quiet. Nate was out on patrol. Nancy only worked weekdays.

  Pete had the entire station to himself. Taking full advantage, he fixed a cup of fresh coffee and settled in at his desk to do some digging.

  Was there something suspicious going on at Golden Oaks?

  Besides Harry romancing the woman across the hall. Pete grinned at the thought.

  If he was doing a serious investigation into the facility, he’d need a subpoena for their financial and employment records. No self-respecting judge would issue one on the flimsy accusations of an old man with Alzheimer’s. Residents’ medical records would be better, but infinitely more difficult to obtain.

  Instead, Pete pulled up the facility’s website. He’d seen it before. This time he searched until he found a list of reviews. Most were four and five star. There were a few with much lower ratings. He clicked on those. However, the comments had nothing to do with suspicious deaths. Instead they complained about high prices and slow response time when a resident needed help.

  He compared those with the higher-rated comments and found a number stating the exact opposite. “Excellent care for the price” and “Wonderful caring staff.”

  Pete closed the page and tried the social media sites with basically the same results. His final effort took more time—scanning the county newspaper’s obituaries over the last few months. There were a handful listing variations of “died at Golden Oaks,” and they were all folks in their eighties or nineties, and one gal who’d lived to 104 and “passed away peacefully surrounded by her family.” God love her.

  None of the obits suggested anything out of the ordinary.

  Then again, anything beyond the standard “old age” would have resulted in the patient being transported to the hospital.

  Which gave him an idea, but before he could act on it, his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number. “This is Chief Adams.”

  The voice on the other end, however, had become very familiar. “Chief, this is Lauren Sanders. I was hoping we could talk.”

  He’d put her off long enough. Too long. If he’d taken her call yesterday, Zoe wouldn’t have ended up with a concussion. And an even better idea occurred to him. “When?”

  “How about now?”

  Pete checked his watch. Still hours until the Saturday night poker game, and he’d already done his part and bought the beer. “I’m at my office. How soon can you get here?”

  “I am here.” The bells on the front door jangled.

  He rose, circled his desk, and leaned out into the hallway. Sanders waved from the front of the station. He ended the call and motioned for her to come on back.

  She settled into the guest chair. “How’s Zoe?”

  Pete gestured at the coffee pot and Sanders shook her head. “Resting comfortably at home.” At least he hoped she was. He took his seat behind the desk.

  “Good. I was worried.” Sanders dug through her bag. “Did you guys happen to find my cell phone?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Oh well. I suppose it’ll show up when the snow melts, and it’s probably ruined anyhow.”

  “I didn’t recognize the number you just used.”

  She held up a small flip phone. “Bought a cheap one at the grocery store just in case my good one hadn’t been recovered. I guess I might as well suck it up and buy a replacement.”

  “I guess.” Pete leaned back in his chair and fingered his upper lip. This was the chattiest she’d been since he’d met her.

  She came up with her notepad and skimmed to a blank page. Scribbled something. “What’s new with the Senior Killers case?”

  Pete choked. “The what?”

  “I didn’t come up with the name.”

  “Well, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t encourage the use of nicknames in the media. It just feeds these guys’ egos.”

  She appeared to weigh the request. “Okay, but I can’t stop anyone else from using it. Now. What’s new?”

  “Not sure what I can add to what you already know. You were there yesterday.”

  “What about overnight?”

  “They’ve been lying low.”

  Sanders cocked her head and gave him an exasperated look. “I meant overnight developments.”

  A little give-and-take might be in order. He slid open a desk drawer. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the Engle farm, but there’s been no sign of new activity there.” He went on to tell her about the stolen white van as he pulled out two sheets of paper, one of which he placed in front of her. “That’s all the information on the van they’re using now.”

  Sanders’ eyes widened as she read. “So you have the license number after all.”

  He thought of Zoe’s attempt to get that information and didn’t reply.

  Sanders nodded toward the other paper. “What’s that?”

  He slid it across to her. “The list of items stolen from the Krolls.”

  She acted as if he’d bought her roses. “Thank you.” Her smile turned to a scowl. “You’re b
eing unusually cooperative.”

  Pete came forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “I need your help.”

  “Oh?”

  “What do you know about Golden Oaks Assisted Living?”

  She tried to cover her puzzlement and failed. “Nothing. Should I?”

  “I’m not sure.” Nor was he sure how much he wanted to tell her about Harry. “One of the patients…residents there thinks some of the deaths at the facility might be questionable.”

  Sanders’ gaze drilled into him. She didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “It’s an old folks’ home. And one of the old folks thinks someone’s killing the other old folks?”

  “That’s about it.”

  She laughed, short and disbelieving. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  “Wish I was.”

  “This resident making the accusation…is she of sound mind?”

  Pete chose not to correct the gender. “Not necessarily.”

  “Then why in heaven’s name are you looking into it?”

  “I’m not,” he lied. Sort of. “I’m asking you to look into it.”

  Sanders stared at him as if he wasn’t of sound mind either.

  “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  Sanders leaned back in the chair and gazed into space. “And if I do find something?”

  “Let me know, and I’ll take it from there.”

  She fixed him with a cold glare.

  “And you’ll get the scoop and an inside story.”

  “And your full cooperation?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She came forward again, jabbing her pen into his desk perilously close to his hand. “I mean on the Senior Killers case.”

  From the look in the reporter’s eyes, there would be no negotiation on this point. Pete was making a deal with the devil just to appease his father’s paranoia.

  Pete unfolded his hands and extended one to her. “Deal.”

  Sanders grasped it and smiled triumphantly.

  Sylvia fussed around in Pete’s kitchen while Zoe set up her laptop at the table. The brightness of the screen intensified her headache and blurry vision, but she had no idea how to tone it down. Or if dimming it was even possible.