Old Chaos (9781564747136)

by Simonson, Sheila

  When Robert repeated the question, using the proprietary name, Schwenk nodded.

  He looked defiant. “We give it sometimes when he can’t sleep. He sleeps a lot these days.”

  “Who orders his prescriptions renewed?”

  “Mrs. Bjork. She picks them up, too. She locks the pills in this cupboard out in the hall when we’ve taken out what we need for the shift. Like we’re going to sell loose pills on the street.” Resentment thickened his voice.

  Rob changed the subject. “Did the commissioner use your telephone?”

  “My cell phone? She lets me charge it. Some of our clients won’t do that. In the den.”

  “The den?”

  “Liberry. Book room. It’s across the hall from the old man’s suite. She won’t have a phone in the suite, says he calls out and orders stuff. That’s a lie. Maybe he did that in the early stages, but not now. He’s beyond that.” He reflected. “There’s a baby monitor in the suite. If I need help I just yell.”

  “Do you keep your telephone records?”

  “Sure. File em away. Why?”

  “Could she have used the phone without your knowledge?”

  Schwenk stared at him. “What for? I come on at ten o’clock at night.”

  “Some people like late-night conversations.”

  “Kinky sex?” He snorted. “For sure she’s not getting any from the old guy. Yeah, she coulda used my phone. The door to the suite is closed and so’s the door to the den. And Lars usually wants the TV running. Old movies.”

  “For the record, did you call Fred Drinkwater at any time from your cell phone?”

  “No. Never heard of him before your sergeant asked me the same question.”

  “Did you ever phone Inger Swets?”

  “No.” Schwenk stared at him. “That the county clerk?”

  Rob went over everything again, thanked the care-giver for coming, closed out the interview, and shook hands.

  “Will I, like, have to testify?”

  “Probably. We’ll let you know. Secure your telephone records.” Rob showed him out, returned to his desk, and pulled the list of phone numbers he had culled from Jeff’s report. Then he called Linda, who was at the Swets residence going through Inger’s belongings, and asked her to find the cell phone bills.

  Larry had given permission for them to examine Inger’s records the day before, when Rob brought him the news of her death, though Prentiss had already taken some of them, along with her personal computer. Larry was now in the hospital under sedation, so Karl had had to let Linda into the house. The episode earlier that morning, when Larry tried to break down Meg’s door, had shaken Karl out of his mood of fixed hostility. It had shaken Rob, too.

  He wondered whether to call Meg again, but she had seemed more annoyed by the damage to her beveled glass window than frightened. She was sorry for Larry, and grateful to Charlie, but not scared. That was Meg.

  He checked his watch and willed Linda to hurry. On an off-chance, he called Prentiss and asked whether results had come in yet from tests on the sports drink found in the Redfern shack. Miraculously, one test had come in. Enough quetiapine to make even a large woman like Inger groggy, but probably not enough to kill her. She must have drunk a lot of it. The bottle was almost empty. The lab had tested for the drug first, at Rob’s request.

  The phone rang. He grabbed the receiver and identified himself, thinking it was Linda.

  Warren Bjork said, “I talked to my lawyers. They’re asking for full disclosure.”

  “And?”

  “I should know by midweek whether that bitch has been siphoning money from my father’s funds.”

  “Surely she’s entitled to compensation for his care and living expenses.”

  “Above that.”

  “Out of curiosity, Mr. Bjork, how did you find out about your father’s condition?”

  A snort of unamused laughter. “By accident. I went to school with one of Cate’s financial advisors. I’m doing a fund drive for the foundation, so I gave him a call. We talked over the good old days, and I made a remark about my father. My old buddy let something slip about power of attorney. He caught himself, but it made me suspicious, so I called Cate and asked to talk to Dad. Five minutes on the phone with him told me all I needed to know. He asked about little Whitney. Little Whitney is my sister, who hasn’t been little since she was ten. And he did that dumb repetition thing. You answer a question, and a few seconds later he asks the same question again.”

  “Must have been a shock,” Rob murmured.

  “You could say that. So I told her I was coming up to see him. We quarreled on the phone. She hadn’t told me, because she didn’t think I was interested. So she said. I was interested.” He huffed for a while, repeating himself.

  “When was that?” Rob interjected when he paused for breath.

  “When was what?”

  “When did you discover your father was suffering from dementia?”

  “Ten days ago.”

  Long after the dinner party. Just after the mudslide. “I thought you said you came north right away.”

  “I’m a busy man. I have important commitments. It took me several days to get things in order so my wife and I could leave.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m considering suing for guardianship.”

  “Good luck.” Rob didn’t care whether Cate Bjork had been stealing from her husband, and he thought it unlikely that Warren would provide better care. “If I understand your stepmother’s financial situation, it’s to her advantage to keep him alive as long as possible. She won’t inherit from him, but while he lives, and she has power of attorney, she can use his wealth to her own advantage. Maybe she’s investing in junk bonds.” That was malicious.

  Warren sputtered and hung up.

  Rob felt the tingle of adrenaline beginning to flow, closed his eyes, breathed carefully in and out, and cleared his mind. No hurry, there was no hurry.

  On the other hand. He picked up the phone and asked Sergeant Howell to look up the number of the Columbia Gorge Hotel.

  When Rob called, Kayla was drowsing on the queen-sized bed on her side of her mother’s suite. Dede had gone down for the elegant Sunday buffet for which the hotel was famous. Rob shocked Kayla awake with the news of Inger Swets’s death.

  “God, that’s awful. I never liked her much, but she didn’t deserve that. What’s happening to Klalo? It’s supposed to be a good place to live.”

  He ignored the rhetorical question. “Did you know Inger well?”

  “I took her wind-surfing once. She was too, I don’t know, too rigid. I kept telling her to feel the wind, go with it, but she couldn’t do that. It was funny to watch, but she doesn’t… didn’t have much sense of humor.”

  “I see. Darla ran with her sometimes. Did you?”

  “I’m not a runner. Used to drive the coaches crazy. I played soccer in high school and did gymnastics. I was good at both, but when they tried to make me run laps I always threw up halfway around the track.”

  Rob chuckled. “Deliberately?”

  “Well, sure. Running laps is boring. Did you call just to chew the fat, or did you have some ulterior detectival motive?”

  “I need your expertise. Do you know two care-givers, not with the agency, by the name of Janet Reo and Barbara Olsen?”

  “Sure. I had to take Janet off the roster last year. Patrick thought she was too fat. Isn’t that just like Patrick? As if heavy people can’t do good work. Janet’s okay. I call Barb in fairly often. In fact, she was working at Beaver Creek the day of the mudslide.” She told him about the three aides who traveled all the way to Portland to bring her purse to her. “I talked to Barb yesterday evening. My mother created this theatrical spectacle at dinner you wouldn’t believe—” She was set to tell him all about her embarrassment and her matri-cidal fantasies, but he interrupted, which wasn’t like Rob.

  “Do you know whether Ms. Olsen works for Catherine Bjork, the county commissioner? The hus
band is an Alzheimer’s patient being cared for at home.”

  “Barb did work for the Bjorks, day shift, three days a week, but sweet Cate fired her yesterday for no reason, said she was making other arrangements. She gave Barb two weeks’ pay in lieu of notice. I’d bet money La Belle Bjork is going to put that poor old man into a care facility.”

  Rob made a whooshing sound, as if he’d been holding his breath. “Thanks, Kayla. You’re a peach.”

  “Kind of a bruised peach at the moment.”

  “Hey, bruises or no bruises, you’re okay, kid. After all, they let you out.”

  “For good behavior?” she asked sourly.

  He laughed. “I’ll call you later to explain what’s happening, Kayla, but right now I have to go.” And he hung up without further palaver.

  She stared at the phone and clicked it off, feeling ill-used. Charlie wouldn’t hang up on her. She had a lot of questions to ask. Why was Rob so interested in Catherine Parrish Bjork?

  Beth finally got around to showing John the bank statements Sunday morning after the excitement at Meg’s house had died down. He was heading back to Portland with Lindsey and their youngest son, so the circumstances weren’t ideal.

  When Lindsey and Cier went off to the kitchen, however, John glanced through the statements. “They were in his file cabinet at work?”

  “Yes. Why would he keep that account a secret from me, Johnny? There’s over ten thousand dollars in it. We were always open with each other about money. I’ve thought and thought, and I can’t come up with an innocent explanation.”

  He stared at her. “Innocent?”

  She swallowed. She would not say the word bribe.

  He riffled through the last three months’ worth and burst into laughter. “Dad’s Irish account.”

  “What?”

  He sobered and said gently, “He was saving to take you to Ireland, Mom. For your golden wedding. He wanted to surprise you, and to do it in style.”

  “Oh, my God. Oh, Mack! But where did the money come from?”

  “Well, a buck here, a buck there. Remember when he was diagnosed with hypertension? The doctor told him to stop eating lunch at Mona’s, so he just ate a sandwich at his desk and saved the difference in a big manila envelope. He put his change in ajar, too. And every month he’d take the jar and the envelope to the bank. He was real proud of himself, told us all about it.”

  Beth was crying again, her tears a tangy mixture of love, relief, and guilt. How could she have suspected her Michael of anything so awful as taking bribes?

  John sat on the arm of the recliner and patted her awkwardly. “Hey, come on, Mom. It’ll be all right.”

  But Beth knew she had fallen from grace.

  Maddie took it into her head to look for camas. She didn’t hesitate to monopolize the pickup. Jack had gone off early with his brother and wouldn’t be home until later.

  The native lilies wouldn’t be blooming yet, of course. It was at least a month too soon for that, but there would be green shoots of camas poking up. The day was pleasant, with a sharp little east wind and no rain. Fluffy clouds drifted in a deep blue sky, and she could see the base of Mount Hood from Highway 14 as she drove west. The apex of the mountain hid itself in cloud.

  At County Road 2 she turned right, consulted the map she had printed from the Internet, and drove seven-tenths of a mile north to a private road that twisted through dense conifers. The road was graveled, well-kept, and quite narrow. She drove slowly, kicking up little dust because this was the first dry morning in at least a week.

  She kept a critical eye on the greenery on both sides of the track, but saw nothing to alarm her. Salal, Oregon grape, and huckleberries grew on the road edge, mixed spruce and fir behind them, with native dogwood and rhododendrons throughout, and one spindly white oak. White oaks tend to be crowded out by a canopy of tall conifers, but the shortage of oaks would not be the Bjorks’ fault. A few Douglas fir and one or two Ponderosa pine towered above the lower conifers.

  The estate lay at the edge of the area where rhododendrons and other rainforest plants flourished. Ferns grew in the shaded spots, maidenhair, horsetail, and sword. Further east the land was too dry for them to grow abundantly, and too cold in winter, as it was for rhododendrons.

  “At least she didn’t plant shit like primroses or petunias along the road,” Maddie muttered. She didn’t dislike primroses, but they were emphatically not native plants. She halted to let a pregnant doe cross in front of her. Black-tail.

  The Bjork house was supposed to lie two-tenths of a mile from the county road, the only house on the private drive. Maddie rounded a last curve, and the land opened up to a natural meadow. The huge house intruded grossly on the scene, but she had to admire it.

  It paid to have good architects. The walls of the mansion showed stone and cedar. Blue slate covered the roof and the many gables placed at strange angles. The windows came in odd shapes, some with stained glass, and balconies that thrust out from the second story rode on heavy beams. The balconies would give excellent views, some of Mount Hood, others Mount Adams. As Cate had boasted at the dinner party, the house was surrounded by natural grasses flecked with early blossoms.

  There was no blacktop. In front of the garage and entryway, the drive comprised hollow concrete paving blocks laid in an attractive design and filled with pea gravel. The blocks were mossy, which was normal after a wet winter, but the moss just gave a pleasant note of color. Maddie got out of the truck, with a passing thought about guard dogs, and trotted up to the front door.

  She rang what looked like a doorbell, though she heard no sound. She saw no cars either. Maybe nobody was at home. She was about to turn around and go back to the pickup when the huge double door opened. She was greeted by her cousin Bitsy Thomas.

  “Hey, Bitsy,” Maddie said when she recovered from her astonishment. Last she’d heard, Bitsy had been working at the Marriot in downtown Portland as an assistant housekeeper.

  “Hey,” Bitsy said without enthusiasm.

  “The commissioner in?”

  “Yeah. Come in. She’s with her husband.” She led Maddie through a high-ceilinged hallway, past a huge, empty kitchen, and out into a glassed-in porch that overlooked a patio. The handsomely designed patio pavers were the same as those used in the driveway. Someone had to keep all those blocks weeded. Tall ceramic urns had not yet been planted with the non-native flowers Cate allowed herself. There were nice benches and chairs. Cedar.

  Bitsy pointed to a flowered lounge chair. “Have a seat. Want coffee?”

  “Sure. How you doing, Bits?”

  “Fine. Back in a sec.”

  She was. The coffee, black and thick the way Maddie liked it, steamed on the cool air.

  “Been here long?” Maddie took an appreciative sip.

  “ ’Bout a week. I’m filling in for the housekeeper. I’ll go get Mrs. Bjork for you.” And she whisked from sight.

  Maddie blinked and settled back to enjoy her coffee. She supposed Bitsy wasn’t in the mood for a good talk. There were low ter-ra-cotta trays of narcissi and jonquils set out on the glass-topped tables scattered around the porch. That was called forcing. Maddie wondered whether camas could be forced. Apart from the flowers, there was no sign of life in the bright room, certainly no mess of living. It was quiet. The minutes stretched.

  At last Bitsy returned. “More coffee?”

  “No, thanks. What’s the problem?”

  “The mister’s being difficult today.”

  “Isn’t there a care-giver?”

  “Yeah. She’s resting. He was bad last night, too.” Bitsy heaved a sigh. “Look, Maddie, it ain’t a good time for a visit. Why don’t you come back some other day? And, uh, call first, huh?”

  Maddie got up and handed her cousin the cup, which was a pretty stoneware mug. “Sure. Talk at you later.”

  Bitsy showed her to the door. As Maddie drove off it struck her as odd that her cousin was “filling in,” and that one care-giver was on duty
day and night with only Cate Bjork to spell her. The Bjorks couldn’t be having serious money problems, not in a house like this one. Maybe the commissioner had trouble keeping hired help.

  Maddie regained the county road without incident. As she drove back to Two Falls she thought about the house. She liked the design, much more than she’d liked the McCormicks’ new house. She’d seen very little of the Bjorks’ interior, but she’d seen enough to know that two people would be lost in a place that size, isolated from each other and from the world, even with servants in residence. It was a house that didn’t make sense.

  What could justify it? If the Bjorks entertained large numbers, twenty or thirty people at a time, with some of them spending the night. If they had five children, eighteen grandchildren, and two old grannies to shelter. If they wanted to turn the house into a B&B. Maddie tried to remember whether Cate had entertained widely before the election, before her husband became ill, but nothing came to mind, which meant she hadn’t entertained many local people. Maybe the house was symbolic. That, at least, was not an alien concept.

  Maddie thought of the longhouses—lodges, so called—of the Klalos and other tribes in the area. They, too, had been very large, though not as large as the Bjork mansion. They had housed small villages. Within larger villages, they had housed kin-groups, with the totem of the clan standing proudly outside in the rain.

  Nobody wanted to live crammed together like that now. Maddie didn’t. She liked her privacy. Still, she could imagine how intense the ties would have been among the people living in a longhouse, how secure a child or an elder would have felt in the enveloping busyness and warmth. She smiled to herself. And how many petty quarrels would have flared around the cook fire at the heart of things.

  Beth managed to gather herself together by the time the county prosecutor, Ellen Koop, then Lt. Prentiss and Rob showed up to talk over the evidence and decide what could be released to the press and what could not. Meg had dropped by earlier on her way to the library, bringing a fresh batch of cookies, and Dany had made a big pot of coffee, so Beth didn’t have to lift a hostessy finger. She spent the time worrying.