Antiques Wanted

by Barbara Allan

  “Oh, goodness, no!” she said. “I wasn’t implying anything sinister. Nor that these unfortunate deaths had to do with the quality of care out there. Not at all! I only wish to see the patients thrive and survive as long as they can.”

  “Dear,” Alice said softly, “many of those patients want to be released from this life. The ones I visit, anyway.”

  “Sunny Meadow is a nursing home,” Cora said. “Dying is what people do there.”

  The former court secretary could be rather tactless, and the comment raised Frannie’s hackles once again.

  Our hostess gestured with a dismissive hand, Miss Lizzie bouncing on her owner’s shoulder. “Look, just forget I said anything!”

  But that was not going to happen—not with me in the room, anyway. I’d already filed everything away in the Vivian Borne memory bank.

  “Why don’t we have dessert,” I said cheerfully. “I could use a sugar boost!”

  Which wasn’t precisely true. A recent blood test revealed my glucose level at prediabetic levels. Middle of the night scoops of chocolate-chip mint ice cream had finally taken their toll. So had the Toll House cookies.

  “And then we’ll drop all this talk of death,” I said, “and get back to murder.”

  “Good idea,” replied Frannie, smiling now, Miss Lizzie, too. She removed the reptile from her shoulder, returned it to the glass house, then she and I went into her kitchen to prepare the refreshments. Soon we were all enjoying decaffeinated coffee along with my delicious concoction. (I had a tiny piece.)

  Heath Bar Torte

  3 egg whites

  ¾ cups and 2 tbl. sugar

  ½ tsp. vanilla

  ½ pint whipped cream

  6 Heath bars, or ½ lb. of chocolate-covered toffee pieces, broken into small bits.

  In a chilled bowl, add the vanilla to the egg whites and beat, gradually adding in the sugar, and continue beating until stiff peaks form. Spread the meringue in a 1-inch-thick circle on parchment paper on cookie sheet. Bake at 275 one hour, until set and lightly browned. Turn off the oven and leave inside 2 hours. Remove meringue and cut in half. Whip the cream, and fold in the broken candy. Transfer bottom half of the meringue to a pretty plate or dish and spread with half of the whipped cream/candy frosting; repeat layers, covering torte completely with frosting. Refrigerate.

  Yield: 8 servings.

  When we had finished eating—Norma, Alice, and Cora partaking of seconds—the conversation soon drifted from Rex Stout to grandchildren and general ailments, and I signaled to Cora that it was time to depart. She nodded in discreet agreement.

  I retrieved my empty serving plate from the kitchen, thanked our hostess, bid good-bye to the others, then Cora and I took our leave.

  We hadn’t traveled very far in the Buick when she said, “There are a lot of people at Sunny Meadow who are not unhappy about Harriet’s departure.”

  “Staff, you mean?” I asked.

  She nodded, keeping her eyes uselessly on the road. “And others.”

  Usually, I try to limit our conversation, in hopes Cora might not wrap the car around a telephone pole. But this line of talk seemed worth the risk.

  “What others?” I pressed.

  “All I know is that Harriet made trouble for anybody who she thought was breaking the rules—staff or residents.”

  And yet, Harriet broke rules herself, smoking in her room near that oxygen tank.

  Cora was saying, “Don’t get me wrong—most of the residents loved her for advocating for them, standing up for them, even going so far as to give testimony about violations that led to fines.”

  “But she was not, I assumed, beloved by the staff.”

  She nodded again, as a car honked at her for hogging the center line. “Especially Mr. Burnett. He wanted to expel Harriet from the facility for smoking inside her apartment, but could never catch her red-handed.”

  “Who else on the staff might have wished her ill?”

  Cora shrugged. “Any one of the ones she’d had a run-in with.”

  Alas, the conversation ended as we had arrived at my abode, Cora missing the driveway again, this time guiding the Buick over a bed of my prized petunias. But then flowers are always doomed to a short life. And, anyway, my bunions were grateful for getting me close to the front door.

  I thanked her for the lift—“Always exciting, dear!”—and exited the car.

  Inside, Sushi greeted me with love and enthusiasm until she realized the platter in my hand was empty. So off she trotted. Where did she learn such selfish behavior?

  I found Brandy in the dining room seated at the Duncan Phyfe table; she was in her jammies, having hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows.

  She gestured to her cup. “I’m having this because I figured there wouldn’t be any torte left.”

  “Good call, dear,” I said, setting the empty dish on the table. “How was your evening?”

  “Okay . . . and yours?”

  I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Most interesting.”

  “Oh?”

  I told her Cora had actually seen Harriet smoking around her oxygen tank.

  Brandy nodded. “That’s what we figured caused the explosion. Hope you’re not disappointed it’s not murder. What else did your friends have to say?”

  Since she seemed genuinely interested—which isn’t always the case—I told her about the nursing home violations, and the various allegations made by the girls.

  “So maybe,” I said, “murder isn’t off the table, after all.”

  After a moment, Brandy said, “Sunny Meadow isn’t the only nursing home to have violations, you know—it’s not really all that uncommon. And so what if Mr. Burnett hired ex-convicts? They’ve served their time, and need jobs.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “Just as long as they perform the jobs sufficiently.” She paused. “And, regarding pain pills . . . they don’t always work the same way for everyone.”

  “Granted,” I said. “Then what about the high rate of deaths that Frannie alluded to?”

  She shrugged. “People who have long-term care insurance are staying in their homes until the policies run out. So they’re arriving at nursing homes in worse shape than before—checking in when it’s about time to check out.”

  I pursed my lips. “I hardly expected you to take Sunny Meadow’s side, after you were nearly blown to bits due to their negligence.”

  “I’m not sure they were negligent, Mother. If Harriet ignored the restriction of not smoking around an oxygen tank, isn’t it her fault that something happened?”

  The girl was really getting my dander up.

  I huffed, “Well, I am not at all convinced the explosion was an accident.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

  “Because Harriet was a troublemaker at Sunny Meadow, a sort of whistle-blower, who made scads of enemies.”

  Brandy sighed. “No one killed Harriet, Mother. She did that to herself.” She cocked her head. “Why do I think you’re just looking for another crime to solve?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why ever would I do that?”

  “Normally I’d say, for the fun of it. But maybe you think nabbing another murderer would help put you in office. Think again—running for sheriff is a full-time job. You don’t have time for another case, even if this is one—which it isn’t.”

  I said nothing.

  “Besides,” she went on, “you can’t go snooping around Sunny Meadow. You’re persona non grata out there. What legitimate excuse could you come up with, for being out at that place?”

  Again I said nothing. It does happen occasionally.

  Brandy pushed back her chair and stood. “The only way you could really investigate your suspicion that Harriet was done in was if you were staying out at Sunny Meadow, and you’re too young for that . . . remember?”

  “You’re right on that account, dear,” I said, nodding.

  Brandy picked up her cup. “Good. Then you’ll forget a
bout Harriet and focus on the campaign.”

  “No,” I replied, “I won’t be able to. But we can confer out at Sunny Meadow, where I’ll be recuperating.”

  “Recuperating? Recuperating from what?”

  “My podiatrist says it’s about time I had these bothersome bunions operated on, and I know Sunny Meadow is the perfect place to heal up.”

  The cup fell from Brandy’s hand and shattered on the floor. Preferable to a spit take, I’d say.

  Mother’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  To get the best selection at a white elephant sale, go early, but anticipate a long queue. To get the best price, go later, but expect less selection. To get the best parking place, leave your car the night before and have someone drop you off at the door, just before the sale opens.

  Chapter Five

  Have Wheels—Will Travel

  This is Vivian once again, coming to you from my new digs at Sunny Meadow Manor, second floor, room 205, which had recently been vacated by another temp patient who had gone home after convalescing from a double hip replacement. (Been there, done that.)

  Merely a week has passed since I made the decision to have the bunions on my feet operated upon (I’m not sure bunions turn up anywhere else but feet), and as luck would have it, when I called my podiatrist to set up the surgery, he’d just had a cancellation from Mrs. Beatrice Fromer and I could take her slot two days hence.

  Well, in case she knew something I didn’t, I gave Beatrice a call to find out exactly why she had gotten cold feet—I’ll pause while you chuckle—and she informed me the cancellation had nada to do with concern over the operation itself, nor skill of the surgeon, but everything to do with the Lady Luck riverboat casino!

  Apparently, the woman simply loved to gamble on the aforementioned paddlewheel, which traversed the Mississippi from Dubuque to Fort Madison and back again, docking in river towns such as ours along the way, taking on passengers going nowhere, though often a good deal of their money was from making a one-way trip.

  Anticipating being laid up for many weeks, and unable to navigate her two too-sore feet to her beloved one-armed bandits, Beatrice made multiple presurgery trips onboard, where each time her aching bunions “spoke to her” and led her to a winning slot. How could she pass up such inside info, giving her a rare advantage over the house (houseboat)?

  My bunions spoke to me, as well, but limited their precognition to the weather, specifically impending rain. But I could get those particulars from the weather channel, without the suffering. So I was fine in saying adieu to the gruesome twosome.

  There are three different procedures to correct protruding bunions: an osteotomy, which involves making a cut along the side of the big toe, then realigning the bunion to its normal position; an exostectomy, the removal of the bunion from the joint without an alignment; and an arthrodesis, where the surgeon replaces the damaged joint with screws or metal plates to correct the deformity. (Warning: refrain from Googling images of any of these procedures before eating. And if you choose the latter procedure, prepare in future to set off airport security alarms.)

  Fortunately, the procedure I selected was an osteotomy, the least extreme. Nonetheless, it required casts on both feet, though to be soon replaced by medical boots, and—with the assistance of crutches—I should be able to walk a little, at which time, according to the terms of my insurance, I’ll get thrown out of here like a sot from a saloon.

  So I had much to accomplish in a limited time frame.

  As you may recall, Sunny Meadow Manor was a large, two-story, redbrick facility, with the assisted-living apartments, reception area, and staff offices on the first floor. The second floor comprised everything else: nursing home patients, Alzheimer’s wing, cafeteria, library, chapel, music/ entertainment area, and several other rooms for private family gatherings. There was even a little coffee shop.

  My quarters were small (though admittedly larger than the cells I’ve inhabited at the county jail) with a hospital-type bed, nightstand, three-drawer dresser, recliner, TV, closet, and bathroom with shower. Brandy had thoughtfully contributed a few welcoming items from home, like the Victorian crazy quilt I’d saved from a dumpster (which admittedly had a few holes in it) (the blanket, not the dumpster), and several of my best nightgowns as well as a comfy robe.

  The dear girl had also gathered some track suits with zippers up the legs to accommodate the casts, so I didn’t have to spend my stay in pj’s. Additionally, I had my cell phone and charger, address book, Mary Kay beauty products, and AARP magazines with helpful articles, although I’m not really big on taking advice—I’ve lived this long doing things the Vivian Borne way! So I just admired the pictures of how well-preserved Warren Beatty, Diane Keaton, and Helen Mirren appear. There’s hope for us all! Hope, and Photoshop.

  Brandy also brought my framed picture of Gabby Hayes to keep me company, which I positioned facing me on my bedside table—although I suspect the child just wanted him off the mantel and out of the house. Gabby’s smiling if toothless face at my bedside did get a few strange looks from the Manor staff, but jealousy is one disease even the best health care can’t cure. Plus, there was a fresh vase of spring flowers sunning itself on my wide windowsill, compliments of the Red Hatted League girls.

  So I was snug as a bug in a rug! A bug whose bunions had been realigned, that is, although considering how many legs and little feet some bugs have, maybe a new cliché is in order.

  This is not to say there weren’t a few adjustments to be made by the Sunny Meadow Manor staff, starting with a little dustup with top dog George Burnett. It had to do with insurance and policy, specifically my insistence on using a special kind of wheelchair, one of which they had in storage, lighter weight than the usual ones, with bigger wheels with hand-rims, and lacking the back handlebars for someone to push me.

  These wheelchair accessories would enable me to get around faster by myself. The end result of the negotiation had me signing a waiver releasing the facility from culpability in the unlikely possibility that anything might go awry.

  There was also a minor kerfuffle with registered nurse Joan Lindle, a female scarecrow in her midforties, who howled at me like a harpy after I left my room without informing her. But this was settled by Brandy sticking a writing board on my door—like college students have in their dorms?—upon which I would record my whereabouts. The actual accuracy of the whereabouts I listed was for me to know and the nurse to find out.

  Now that I was settled in, I began my investigation in earnest. For while my bunions indeed had been due for a tune-up, I was using that excuse to give me good and thorough access to Sunny Meadow and its denizens.

  As the spring morning outside found the sun shining itself silly, I waited till after breakfast, which I skipped—why wake the beast before lunch?—to wheel myself to the central elevator and descend to the first floor’s assisted-living apartments. My mode of transport (the wheelchair, not the elevator) was light and swift, and almost better than legs and feet, particularly when the latter weren’t bunion-free.

  I was wearing one of the zipper-leg track suits in periwinkle blue—not according to my color chart, I admit, but I hadn’t mentioned that to Brandy, not wanting to appear ungrateful. I rolled myself off the elevator, then along the hallway, my destination the quarters of Mrs. Goldie Goldstein, who had donated the Louis Vuitton suitcase to my cause.

  Passing by poor Harriet’s former apartment, I noted that repairs had been made: new door, repainted outside walls, even new carpeting in that area—fast, efficient work, for a facility so often criticized. It was almost as if the explosion had never happened, but for a faint, scorched aroma still lingering in the air, like our kitchen after Brandy ruined something.

  The next apartment was Goldie’s, and I leaned forward in my wheelchair and knocked on the door, which opened after a few moments.

  “Vivian,” the woman said, smiling pleasantly. “I heard through the grapevine that you were sailing the Good Ship Sunny Me
adow.”

  I always wonder if I should correct that kind of thing—what sort of ship has a grapevine on it? But a professional writer like myself mustn’t expect precision from amateurs.

  As always, Goldie was impeccably dressed, having owned a local women’s clothing store for years—I took perverse pleasure in trading there, where no prices were on the tags and you were required to bargain as if at an Arabian bazaar. Today’s pleasantly plump hostess was attired in a navy jacket over cream-colored silk blouse with a bow at the neck, tailored tan slacks, and brown leather loafers with tassels. Her short silver hair was styled attractively, and she wore just the right amount of rouge.

  “Up for a visit?” I asked.

  “I’d love a chat,” she replied, beaming down at me.

  Her positive response was a relief, because I was already wheeling forward, and might have rolled over her expensive shoes had she not stepped aside.

  Goldie’s apartment was furnished in the Chippendale style, of which I am not a fan. Following as it did the simple elegance of the Queen Anne period that I preferred, Chippendale tried too hard with its overly ornate wood carvings, taloned (claw-and-ball) feet, and dependency on pointed pediments and finials.

  I wheeled forward into the compact living room area, and parked in the only spot large enough to accommodate my vehicle, which was in front of the coffee table and next to a particularly unattractive, excessively carved chair, with large lion-paw feet. Ugh—who wants their furniture to appear about to pounce? But to each her own.

  “How are you, Vivian dear?” Goldie asked, adding, “If there’s anything I can do to help you while you’re here, please let me know.”

  “Just need a little time being pampered,” I said, “while the toot-toot-tootsies are on the mend.”

  She nodded, still smiling, as she slid into the ugly chair.