“How many have you done?”
Richmond flips through his notebook and takes out a piece of paper with a list of names on it, some of which are crossed off, and some of which have a blue star next to them. He counts the ones that are crossed off. “Twenty-two so far.”
“Why do some of the names have stars next to them?”
“They’re patients who are more or less bedbound, so they’re basically eliminated from suspicion. That’s a third of the patients, so when you take that into account, I’m more than halfway done.”
“Anyone stand out?”
“Yes and no. Everyone I’ve talked to so far has heard the rumor about Chase bumping off his more costly patients and they haven’t hesitated to say so. That’s one thing I’ve found rather refreshing so far. These folks aren’t afraid to be honest and tell it like it is, though no one has confessed to killing the guy yet.” Richmond pauses and juts his chin toward the exit to the outside garden area. “There is a group of folks who seem to be avoiding me, however. They’ve been hanging outside in that garden area the entire time. At first, I thought they were out there because they’re smokers, but they haven’t come inside at all, which surprises me. Granted it was a sunny, warm day, but now the sun has set and it’s chilly out there.”
I remember the smoking group I encountered earlier when Irene first brought me here and suspect I know why they are avoiding the cops. “Let me talk to them.”
Richmond glances at his watch. “Have at it. Let me know if you catch the killer.” With that, he calls the next name on his list and a yellow-haired old lady with a walker gets up from the table across the room and starts toward us.
I get up from my chair and head outside. Over by a raised planter area sprouting daffodils and crocuses is the small group of folks Richmond was referring to: three men and two women. They are huddled together, whether out of secrecy, cold, or both I can’t tell, and talking in low voices.
I know all five of them through different means. The one I know the best is Betty Young, a retired hairdresser who used to own a local salon. Betty hasn’t lost her desire to always be seen with perfect hair, nails, and makeup, but she has lost her eyesight to a large degree. Either that or she thinks a beehive hairdo shellacked into chaotic submission that a tornado couldn’t move is the fashion bomb. As I close in on the group, I see that Betty’s makeup is also looking a bit dicey. Aside from the wrinkles filled with face powder, and a mix of teal green and sky blue eye shadow that’s straight out of the seventies, her ruby red lipstick is applied far beyond the edges of her mouth and her eyeliner is crooked and smeared. The end result is rather garish and sad. I wonder if it’s because she’s been wearing it all day, or if it looked like that when she first put it on.
I say hi to Betty and then acknowledge the others in the group. There’s Tom Watson, a retired CPA and part-time inventor who never invented anything anyone wanted to buy or use, though he did manage to lose his wife to the patent attorney who also took most of Tom’s money. I also recognize Barry “Bubba” Hildreth, who used to run the Streets Department in town until someone discovered he was hiding the fact that he was legally blind. Unfortunately, that discovery came after Bubba buried three citizens in a snowbank and took out the corner section of a downtown pharmacy while driving the city snowplow. Judging from the white cane he is now carrying and the fact that he is living at Twilight Home, I gather he has finally accepted his handicap.
The third gentleman in the group is Randolph Pettigrew, who at one time was a highly successful insurance salesman and the main reason behind most of the divorces in Sorenson. Not only was he a very handsome man, something that is still evident even at his current advanced age, but he apparently felt the need to live up to his nickname, Randy. Personally, I’m amazed that he’s managed to make it to eighty-whatever because rumor has it he was shot once, stabbed twice, and beaten at least a half dozen times by jealous, cuckolded husbands. Several times, he required blood transfusions and as a result developed chronic hepatitis. That’s how I got to know him. His health problems led to several trips to the ER back when I worked there.
The other woman in the group is Aileen Cavanaugh, who used to own and run the local florist shop. It’s now run by her son and daughter-in-law who do an adequate job but lack Aileen’s talent. Aileen has a natural ability to pull together unusual combinations of flowers, greenery, and colors, resulting in some stunningly beautiful arrangements that built her a reputation. It will be interesting to see if the store survives now that she is no longer associated with it. Her talent built and maintained the business for more than three decades. I figure they’ll be safe if no one else comes to town and opens shop, but if any competition arises, it’s anyone’s guess what will happen.
I don’t know if there are any romantic liaisons going on in this group but I figure Randolph is safe. Betty and Aileen are widows so there are no husbands to worry about. Tom is about half Randolph’s size and arthritic enough that Randolph could easily outrun him, even though Randolph’s fastest pace these days is a slow shuffle. And Bubba can’t see well enough to shoot, stab, or beat Randolph even if he wanted to.
“What a terrible thing,” Betty says to me. “Do the cops know who did it?”
“Did what?”
The group all look at one another, except for Bubba who simply chuckles.
“Someone killed Bernard Chase,” Randolph says. “We all know what happened. What we don’t know is who did it.”
“How about why someone did it?” I ask. “Do any of you know the answer to that?”
Once again they exchange looks, except for Bubba. After several long seconds, Bubba says, “Bernard wasn’t a nice man. He was killing off patients who cost him too much.”
Richmond was right. No one is holding back. “Why do you think that?”
Bubba shrugs. “It happened too regularly and too consistently to be a coincidence. One day you’re bedbound and a week later you’re dead. No one questions nursing home deaths. We’re old, we’re feeble, and no one cares. Good riddance.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” I say.
“Well, it’s true,” Randolph says. “We’re the last pariahs in modern society. If we start costing too much, people think we should just be put down like a dog.”
Though no one in the group is smoking at the moment, there’s a lingering scent of spicy smoke in the air and I wave my hand in front of my face and lower my voice. “What are you guys smoking?”
Bubba coughs, Betty and Randolph exchange wary looks, Tom starts chewing on a fingernail, and Aileen chuckles.
Randolph says, “What? You think we made up the thing about Chase killing off patients? Do you think the idea is nothing more than a figment of our drug-addled imaginations?”
“You’re not going to turn us in, are you?” Tom asks.
“I don’t care what you do unless it relates to Bernard’s murder. And no, I don’t think the idea about Chase killing off patients is some drug-induced paranoia, though I’m not sure I believe it’s true, either. As to what you’re smoking, I’m just curious.”
Randolph extends an arm toward me and says, “Mattie, would you walk with me for a minute. I need to ask you something.”
Though I’m certain I’m being handled, I decide to go with the flow as Emily said, and see where it leads me. I take Randolph’s arm and let him steer me down a small walkway to a bench on the far side of the garden. The bench, which is metal, feels icy cold against my legs when I sit, despite my pants.
“Here’s the deal, Mattie,” Randolph says. “As you might imagine, life in this place can be pretty boring. All of us here are in the twilight of our lives, which makes the name of the place quite fitting, don’t you think?” I start to answer, but he doesn’t pause long enough for me to get a word out. “Our time is limited and our years are numbered. We are stricken with infirmities and indignities that remind us of that ever-ticking clock. When you get right down to it, there isn’t a lot left for us to look for
ward to. So sometimes we create our own fun.”
“By smoking pot?”
Randolph chuckles. “There isn’t any pot here. That stuff they’re smoking is a mix of herbal tea and oregano with a hint of dried mint. I grow the oregano and mint right here in my room.”
“Seriously?”
“I swear. I mix it myself. Then I sell it to them at a price so reasonable they feel like they’re getting a steal of a deal. Betty’s grandson buys the real stuff and he’s told her what it costs, so they know.”
“You’re selling it to them?” I ask, wondering who I’m more in shock over, Randolph for duping the others, or the others for being so gullible.
“I’m not breaking any laws, and neither are they. Nothing in that stuff is illegal.”
“They have no idea?”
Randolph smirks. “I don’t think so. They think it’s the real stuff.”
“So why do it?”
“Because it gives them an edge. It makes them feel like they’re doing something a little naughty. It’s an illusion that makes them feel alive. Where’s the harm in that?”
I think about it for a few seconds and then shrug. “Is it safe to smoke that stuff?”
“It hasn’t hurt anyone yet. Besides, most of them don’t even inhale. I think Aileen suspects it isn’t real, but she’s having so much fun playing into it that she won’t say anything. No one wants to burst the bubble. Life here is boring and stagnant. Anything that counters that is something they will embrace. To be honest, I think Bernard’s murder is going to be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened for most of the folks here. That’s why everyone is so eager to talk to the cops while the employees and board members are all busy covering their asses. The patients want to be involved. They want to help you solve the case if they can, and do their own investigations. Some of them have already started asking questions and grilling one another. They all look more alive right now than they have in months, maybe years.”
Death does have a way of making one feel alive. “One of them might have killed Chase,” I remind him.
His ethereal smile disappears and after a moment he nods slowly. “I doubt it, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“If you were to pick someone here, a resident, who you think is capable of something like that, who would it be?”
Randolph ponders this a moment, his eyes narrowed in thought. Finally he says, “I don’t know how Bernard died, but I would say Frank Dudley. Or Ruth Waldheim.”
I commit the two names to memory. “Why them?”
Randolph flashes a brief, sly smile that suggests he knows something juicy. “Frank hates this place. His family dumped him here after he got the sugar diabetes and ended up having his left leg amputated below the knee. He was a farmer and the leg thing made it impossible for him to run the place anymore. No one in his family was interested in running the farm. All they wanted was the money it might bring in if they could sell it. So they tricked Frank into coming here to live by saying they’d run the farm. Then they sold the place and took off with the money. Frank is pretty bitter about it and blames Bernard for helping his family with what he calls ‘duping me into becoming a prisoner here.’ ”
“Would Frank have the strength to overpower someone else?”
“Oh, yeah,” Randolph says with a roll of his eyes. “The guy is built like a Mack truck. And I’ve seen him swing that prosthetic leg of his. Let me tell you, one good whack with that thing and you’re going down. If Bernard has a dent in his head that looks like a heel or a toe, I’d be looking at Frank as the culprit.”
I make a mental note to ask Izzy about any bruises, though I’m certain if he had found anything critical he would have told us. “Why Ruth Waldheim?”
“She’s a small woman, but she has three boys who are all well over six feet tall, drunk much of the time, and always looking for a fight.”
This is nothing new; most people in town know about the Waldheim family. “But why would Ruth want Bernard dead?”
“Technically, it’s not Bernard she wants dead, but Ruth is senile as all get out and doesn’t know who or where she is most of the time. She was sexually abused by a cousin when she was a teenager and in her confusion, she relives that on a regular basis. Apparently, Bernard bears a physical resemblance to the cousin so every time Ruth sees him, she starts to cry and accuse him of molesting her. The sons know about the past abuse, but are more testosterone and muscle than brains. They tend to want to lash out and protect their mother, even though the staff here is constantly reminding them that Ruth is confused.”
“Interesting.” I know the Waldheim boys. They look like backwoods hillbillies with long, scraggly hair and beards that look like they should be trimmed with a weed whacker. I’ve heard rumors about them in town from time to time, and the owner of the local hardware store swears the boys have the best recipes for squirrel and possum this side of the Rockies. None of them finished high school and I’d wager their combined IQ is probably lower than their mother’s body weight.
Dr. Maggie suddenly pops into my head, wagging a finger at my use of the word wager. I shake off the image and tune in to what Randolph is saying.
“You should probably focus on the A, B, and C wing patients,” Randolph says. I give him a questioning look and he explains further. “This facility is set up as two squares. The first one is where you came in. It houses the administrative offices, a laundry, a hair salon, a gym that serves as the PT and OT area, the dining room, and a few other rooms. The patient rooms make up the second square. The top of that square, which is the hallway you see straight ahead when you turn left at the entrance, is called the A wing. I don’t know if it’s intentional or not but it’s where most of the Alzheimer and other dementia patients are roomed if they are relatively stable physically. The first hall to the right is B wing and the hallway that goes left at the entrance to the dayroom is C wing. B and C wings house the patients who are relatively stable and somewhat independent. It’s also home to the temporary rehab patients, the ones who need to come here for a couple months after their hip or knee replacement because they can’t manage on their own yet and don’t have anyone at home to help them. I’m pretty sure those are . . . were Chase’s favorite type of patient. I heard him say once that the reimbursement for acute rehab is better. That leaves the D wing. That’s where all the severely disabled people live and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they are stashed away in the hall farthest from the main door and the public areas.”
I nod my understanding.
“I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that that’s where all the deaths have been lately,” he adds in an ominous but hushed tone. “Out of sight, out of mind.”
He’s starting to sound like Arnie.
“Thanks for your insight,” I tell him. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of, but if something comes to me I’ll let you know.” Randolph gets up from the bench and offers me a hand.
I take it, smiling at his womanizing ways. I have to admit, the guy is a charmer.
“You won’t squeal to the others, will you?” he asks me.
“You mean about the fake pot?”
He nods. “They’re just looking for a few final thrills to enjoy before their life journeys come to an end. Where’s the harm?”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I assure him.
“Thanks. Shall we?” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand back toward the rest of his group.
“You go ahead. I want to talk to that guy over there.” The guy I’m referring to is Arnie, who I’ve spied over the fence in the side parking lot standing next to a shiny blue BMW, dusting the driver’s side door for prints. He sees me and waves me over.
Randolph returns to his group of clandestine smokers and I head for Arnie. I start to go through the same gate I used earlier, but it is locked on the other side. Fortunately, my baboon arms leave me well equipped for such a problem. I stand on tiptoe and reach way over the fence,
and slide the bolt. I go through, lock the gate again, and make my way to Arnie. “How’s it going?”
“Tedious, to be honest,” he says. “All I’ve really done so far is lift prints and they’re all over the place. Brenda Joiner and I must have lifted a hundred or more in the men’s room and then she went home. Now I’m out here checking Bernard’s car. When I’m done, I’m supposed to go into Bernie’s office and start dusting in there.”
“Have you done any employee interviews?”
Arnie shakes his head. “Hurley spent an hour or so arguing with the board members about whether or not he could talk to the employees, but when he realized no one would speak to him out of fear of losing their jobs until they got the go ahead from administration, he gave in. I guess there’s a bunch of lawyers on their way, and until they arrive, none of the employees are to talk to anyone. They tried to convince the patients to wait, too, but most of them are talking.”
“So I heard from Richmond. Apparently, they’ve been quite forthcoming. Do you know where Hurley is now?”
“Last I saw him, he was inside snooping around in the mail room. He said he was going to get started searching the administrative offices, but the only one that is unlocked is Bernie’s.”
“Let me guess. The board isn’t going to open them until the lawyers get here.”
“You got it,” Arnie says. “It’s almost as if they’re trying to hide something, isn’t it?” There is a light in his eyes I know all too well. He gestures toward the administrative wing exit. “If you want to hook up with Hurley, I stuck a rock in that door over there so it wouldn’t close all the way and lock.”
“Oh, good.”
Arnie beams. “I have my moments.”
I leave him to his fingerprint dust and let myself into the administrative wing. The lights in the hallway are on, but the area is quiet and appears empty except for the police tape and barricades at the other end marking off the crime scene. I can see the entrance to the mail room at the far end of the hall and though the door is open, the lights are turned off. All the office doors are closed and the rooms are dark. The eerie quiet along with the darkened rooms spooks me. I stop just inside the exit door and holler, “Hurley?”
Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) Page 14
