Dying Wishes

by Judith K Ivie

  ~

  I left Margo calling Strutter to make arrangements for us to compare our findings on the following Tuesday, when we would all be in the office at the same time. I arrived home to find Armando doing laundry. Normally, I would have been delighted, but the sight of an open suitcase on the sofa took the joy out of it.

  “Not again,” I complained, knowing full well his answer would be that yes, once again he had been summoned to put out some financial fire on behalf of his employer, TeleCom, Inc. Now that TeleCom’s business had become international in scope, Armando’s fluent Spanish and ease among the company’s Mexican and South American clients, not to mention his detailed knowledge of the contractual agreements in place, was coming in very useful—for TeleCom, not for me. Even Gracie, curled up tightly in the armchair, had her eyes squeezed shut to erase the sight of her favorite person in the whole world leaving once again.

  “I am so sorry, Cara, but it will be for only a few days this time,” he assured me. “I dare not be away for any longer, or you and your partners will find some way to get yourselves into the warm water.”

  “Hot water,” I said sadly. I had planned to fill him in on the morning’s conversation with Janet and Bitsy but decided against it. “Where are you going this time?”

  “Just to San Diego. It seems like a waste of time to me, as I will spend two whole days flying there and back, but our CFO wants a representative to handle our interests in person with this difficult client who is demanding to have everything including the sun and the moon written into his contract. I will be back on Wednesday.” He looked at his watch. “I seem to have some time before I need to leave for the airport.” He reached out and caressed my cheek. “Do you really want to waste it talking about TeleCom’s contractual difficulties, or could I persuade you to return to your bed with me?”

  As it turned out, he could. And then he was gone.

  That evening, feeling very much at loose ends and with nothing much to occupy my hands or my mind, I called Joey.

  “A call from my mom on a Saturday night?” he said in mock horror. “Has the sky fallen in Wethersfield, Connecticut? Has hell frozen over?” Then the joking tone abruptly left his voice. “Are you okay, Ma?”

  “Wow, and I thought your sister was the drama queen in this family. I’m fine. Emma’s fine. Armando’s fine. He got called away to San Diego on business this afternoon, but he’ll be back on Wednesday. I just called to check up on the parents-to-be. How’s Justine doing?”

  We spent a few minutes chatting about Justine’s latest check-up and their enrollment in a Lamaze class at the nearby hospital. “You and Dad did that, didn’t you? What did you think of all that panting stuff?”

  In truth, I hadn’t thought much of it, but I didn’t want to tell him that. “Lots of couples find it very helpful,” I hedged. “At least it gives you something to do while you’re waiting for the big moment.” Then I hastily changed the subject. “How’s work going?”

  He filled me in on his new duties as a part-time dispatcher for the trucking company he worked for. He far preferred driving his big rig, but the dispatching work brought in a little extra income, which would certainly come in handy in the months ahead.

  “How’s Jasmine?” he asked out of the blue, throwing me momentarily. He had grown up with the old cat, as had Emma.

  I looked down at Jasmine, who lay curled up next to me on the couch. Her favorite heat source was Armando, but tonight she was making do with me. “She’s nearly twenty-two years old, which is more than one hundred in human years, but she’s doing fine, considering. Why do you ask?”

  He hesitated but finally spit it out. “Emma emailed me a couple of days ago, asking if you’d said anything to me. She had a dream that Jasmine died.”

  I frowned. “That’s odd. She never said anything to me about it.” I marveled once again at the intricacies of family communications. “Surely she must know I wouldn’t keep anything like that from her, and how could I anyway? I work with her every day, and she’s in and out of here all the time.”

  “Yeah, it was probably because of one of those nature shows she’s always watching on TV where some poor critter dies an awful death, but you know Em. She thought it was a premonition or something.” His tone was mocking, but I detected a note of relief. I, on the other hand, felt suddenly anxious. Emma’s premonitions tended to be right on target.

  We said goodnight, and I looked at Jasmine more closely. I rubbed the top of her head between her ears the way she liked, and she stretched and purred. She was old and deaf as a post, but she ate well and got around fine with the help of the pet stairs we had placed next to the double recliner in the family room and my bed, her preferred napping places. She slept most of the time, but at her age, that was hardly surprising.

  I looked at my watch and got up to prepare her bedtime snack, a dish of cottage cheese. When I returned and waved it under her nose, she awoke immediately and followed me to the bedroom with her usual eagerness.

  Relieved not to have to add Jasmine to my growing list of age-related worries just yet, I got ready for bed and called Armando to say goodnight.

  Ten

  On Sunday morning I occupied myself with the domestic chores I had neglected the previous day, then persuaded Emma to join me for a brisk walk around the Wethersfield Green. The work situation at Mack Realty had been so unsettled over the past couple of years that Emma and I had fallen out of our habit of before-work constitutionals, so it wasn’t long before I was huffing and puffing in Emma’s wake on this occasion.

  “Slow down and give an old woman a break,” I begged her with what little breath I had left.

  She looked over her shoulder and paused just long enough for me to pull even with her. “Wow, you’re going downhill fast. It won’t be long before Armando has to tie your shoes for you.”

  We completed our circuit of the green, which began and ended at the Nathanial Foote marker, the home site of an original settler who had died in the mid-1600s, but Emma steamed forward toward the pond near the intersection of Spring Street. “Come on, I want to visit the swans.”

  To our delight the pair of swans that had summered for years on the pond, but were dislodged by necessary repairs to the earthen dam at one end, had returned this year. Armando and I had watched George and Laura, as we had dubbed them, raise half a dozen families among the reeds and marsh grasses. In tandem they had nurtured up to seven scrawny cygnets in a season, protecting them from predatory snapping turtles and territorial geese who occasionally encroached on the family’s established snoozing patch on the grassy bank. No one who had ever witnessed George in full hiss on those occasions ever doubted that he would prevail.

  Until last spring, it had been two years since we had seen them, but here they were, paddling serenely in the pale sunshine. The record-breaking eight little ones they had raised this season, now sleek young adults, foraged among the drooping branches at one side of the pond. Soon the youngsters would depart, as would George and Laura, for winter quarters on the Connecticut River, where the water remained open and food would be available.

  “To everything there is a season,” I murmured, “and this is a sure sign of autumn.”

  “A stangely biblical reference coming from you,” Emma teased me.

  “Just because I consider the Bible to be a work of fiction doesn’t make it any less pithy,” I pointed out. “Sometimes those old boys got it right. Birth, death, the cycle of life, dust to dust and all that.”

  Emma chewed on that for a while. “So what do you think Jasmine will come back as after she dies?”

  I kept my face straight as I considered my reply. Jasmine was nearly twenty-two years old. She couldn’t live forever, but I didn’t want to exacerbate Emma’s obvious worry about her. “I don’t have a clue.” I watched George settle into a nap, his long neck curled back on itself to lie against his body. “Maybe a very feisty earthworm or a bulldog or the prime minister of Israel.” I shrugged. “We all come out of the e
nergy pool, and we all go back into it—even mothers.” I smiled at her kindly. “Speaking of motherhood,” I segued none too gracefully, “how is your thinking on that issue progressing?”

  “It’s progressing but not very quickly, she said tersely. I took the hint and didn’t press her. A few yards from us, an old lady climbed out of a Volvo sedan that looked even more ancient than she and shuffled up to the embankment where a few ducks were sunning themselves. She carried a plastic bag full of white bread, which she began tearing into pieces and tossing onto the grass. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how bad bread, crackers and chips are for the birds and how sick that stuff can make them.

  Emma followed my glance. “The Town should educate people about why they shouldn’t feed the water fowl, not just put up a little sign saying they shouldn’t do it. She means well. She just doesn’t know any better.”

  I nodded absently. “I did the same thing when I was a little girl. I had no idea that I was doing a bad thing. Today’s kids learn all about that in elementary school, thank goodness, and cracked corn is available in just about every supermarket now.”

  “Joey and I were lucky to have you and Daddy.” She cut her eyes at me. “I’m beginning to realize what a big job parenting is.”

  I smiled. “That’s because you’re taking the time to think about it and make an educated choice. Most people just roll the dice, and if it happens, it happens. I’m afraid your father and I fell into that category, too, years ago.”

  “But look at how lucky you got,” Emma sassed. I laughed out loud, and she joined in. Emma in her teen years had been a handful and a half.

  “Lucky now, for sure, but when you were in high school, not so much.”

  “It’s not as if Joey was a teenage paragon, you know. He was just sneakier.”

  How well I remembered. “Despite how clueless you may think your parents were, we didn’t miss too much, Em. We were well aware of your brother’s activities. We just handled them differently. All young people need to break away sooner or later.” I pointed to the swans. Where earlier in the summer the family had swum, foraged and napped as a unit, now the cygnets were venturing away from their parents in twos and threes to feed on their own. George and Laura maintained their watchfulness but at a discreet distance. “The kids will be leaving soon, and mom and pop will be on their own again by Thanksgiving.”

  “Eight in one season,” Emma murmured. “Can you imagine?”

  “I don’t even want to try,” I shuddered. “Shall we head back?”

  ~

  On Monday morning I received a call from Ada Henstock to ask if she and Lavinia could take me up on my offer of a tour of Vista View. Though my heart wasn’t fully committed to the idea of the sisters living there, I could hardly refuse without raising an alarm. We agreed to meet at eleven o’clock Wednesday morning at the sales desk.

  At ten I joined Bert Rosenthal for a cup of coffee in the dining room. It had become customary on my days there, and I looked forward to our visits. His determined optimism in the face of some serious health challenges inspired me to stop whining—okay, to whine less—about my own little aches and pains. Besides, Bert was an absolute hoot.

  “You know what they say, Gorgeous. If you’re over fifty and nothing hurts when you wake up, don’t bother trying to find your slippers. You’re dead,” he cackled today.

  I made a face at him. “It’s always good news with you, isn’t it, Bert?”

  “My devilish sense of humor is part of my charm. The ladies love it.” He winked at me behind his thick lenses and brushed crumpet crumbs from his tie. It was mid-morning on a weekday, and he was perfectly turned out, as always.

  “So what’s your take so far on Margaret Butler’s demise?” he asked as serenely as if he were asking my opinion on the weather. I choked on my coffee so badly I had to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. Subtle.

  “Sorry about that, but it’s the hot topic of conversation around here this week. You and La Preston behind closed doors on Friday, the cousins showing up here an hour later, Garcia going all tight-lipped.” He nodded at Tommy, who was going about his morning duties wearing an uncharacteristically dour expression. “People notice these things, and when you get involved, conclusions inevitably are drawn.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “So what’s up, Toots?”

  “When I get involved?” I repeated, stalling for time.

  “Yeah, you, Miss Marple. You have quite the reputation as an amateur sleuth around here.”

  I was appalled but not entirely surprised. The grapevine in a small community transmits information more efficiently than Facebook. I wondered if Margo had booked a massage yet with Tommy, and if so, how many people knew about it, as well as my own appointment with Gerald MacRae later today. Well, no use bothering to deny it. I tried a little damage control instead.

  “My partners and I have helped clear up a couple of matters for our clients, quite unofficially, of course; but Ginny Preston and I have been friends for a long time. If we choose to put our feet up over lunch in her office, I don’t see why that should concern anyone. She mentioned that the Hendersons were arriving, but only in passing. I think the people here need more to occupy their very creative minds. Perhaps a drama club?”

  Bert’s lips twitched. “Look who’s talking. If anyone is looking for drama where none exists, it’s you. There wasn’t any food in evidence in Preston’s office, just files, lots of ‘em.”

  Now I was annoyed. Drat these busybodies anyway. “The reason for having glass-walled offices is to create an atmosphere of openness and trust. Everything gets done in plain sight, no secrets. Residents’ paperwork is kept strictly private, however, and when it’s out of the file cabinets, the office door gets closed.” I shrugged. “HIPPA regulations and all that.”

  Bert’s expression was skeptical and still amused. “You’re not an employee of Vista View, so I wonder why you would be perusing residents’ personal records.”

  I felt as if I were engaged in a conversational tennis match. Advantage, Rosenthal.

  “My company is under contract here, so it’s the same thing. We just don’t get benefits,” I quipped, but it just hung up on the net before falling clumsily to the clay. “There was a little discrepancy in the billing, and we were simply confirming the dates on a couple of sales.” I buried my nose in my coffee mug. Why had I ever thought this man was funny? He would have been a star during the Inquisition.

  Bert waited for me to surface, then said quietly, “There’s nothing going on here for you and Ginny Preston to worry yourselves about, Kate. Take it from me. I know.”

  Looking into his wizened, elfin face, I very much wanted to believe him. Then I remembered Margo’s and my odd brunch conversation with Bitsy and Janet. Too many people were going to a lot of trouble to get me to back off, which only strengthened my resolve to dig deeper. I patted Bert’s hand.

  “I have a couple of prospects coming in on Wednesday morning to look the place over, good friends who are considering moving in. Care to help me give them the grand tour? You can provide the insider’s perspective.”

  He accepted the change in topic with good humor. “You bet, Gorgeous.”

  ~

  Ginny and I made it a point to have our lunch in full view of the dining room, although we took the precaution of choosing a table out of earshot of the other staff members. We laughed and smiled a lot, just two carefree ladies lunching.

  “Making any progress?” she asked in a low voice. Then, louder, “Rog and I saw Jersey Boys at the Bushnell Saturday night. It was incredible, like being transported back to 1960 and actually watching the Four Seasons perform.” She pulled a program out of her purse and slid it across the table. On it was written, “Hendersons met with GM. No surprises in will. Seemed reassured, flew back to K yesterday.”

  “Looks great,” I enthused, pulling a pencil out of my own purse. “How long will the show be in Hartford? Maybe we can still get tickets.”

  I turned over the program and jo
tted, “Margo sees TG later today. I have appt with GM. Doc more difficult.” I slid the program back to her.

  “I’m sure Armando would love it as much as you would. When will he be back from San Diego, by the way?” She read what I had written and nodded.

  “Late Wednesday, so maybe I can get tickets for the weekend. I’ll call tomorrow.” My emphasis on the last three words let Ginny know I would be telephoning her, not the Bushnell, tomorrow to report our findings, if any. She nodded again and tucked the program safely back into her purse.

  Feeling inquisitive eyes upon us despite our subterfuge, we chatted audibly about other shows we had seen, then exchanged news about our respective offspring. After half an hour or so of this superficial conversation, it was a relief to get back to the relative privacy of the sales desk. I was pleased to see an obvious mother-daughter duo browsing through some sales literature and hurried to make them welcome.

  ~

  Gerald MacRae turned out to be the shorter, more compactly built husband of the Grant-MacRae foursome I had seen several times now. Two young associates shared office space with him on the first floor of an historic residence on Broad Street.

  “More accurately, I share this space with them,” he explained after we were comfortably settled on the sofa in what must once have been a parlor and now served as a conference room. “Thank you, Shirley,” he added, accepting a tea tray provided by an elderly, birdlike little woman who smiled at me warmly and took herself out, shutting the door behind her. “Shirley shares my view of retirement,” he commented. “One needs to remain active, and so we do.”

  He poured out two cups of tea. “Janet and I lived here for many years, as a matter of fact. We used to enjoy doing a lot of the maintenance and restoration work ourselves, but there came a day when we realized we would rather expend our remaining energy on the tennis court. Sugar?”

  I shook my head. “I can certainly understand that. I can see that day coming myself, which is one of the reasons I swapped my creaky old Colonial for one of the freestanding condos at The Birches a few years back. I’m not much of a tennis player, though.”