by Gina Cresse
“Hello. You must be Devonie,” he called as I got out of my car.
“Yes. And you’re Chuck?”
“That’s me. Come on in. The wife is baking cookies. Oatmeal, I think.”
I smiled and followed him into his kitchen. “Betty, this is Devonie. She’s the little gal who bought Lou’s place,” Chuck said to his wife, who was busy measuring out a cup of raisins into a bowl of oatmeal cookie dough. She was twice as plump as her husband.
“Nice to meet you,” she replied. “Sorry I can’t shake your hand, but I’m all gooey with dough,” she continued, waving her pudgy, dough-covered fingers over the bowl to prove her point.
“Oh, don’t worry. I know never to bother a chef when she’s busy creating a masterpiece,” I said, admiring a rack of cooling cookies. The aroma of cinnamon wafted to my nose. “They smell great.”
Betty smiled proudly. “Help yourself. They’re still warm from the oven.”
Chuck grabbed two off the cooling rack and took a bite out of one. He pointed toward the rest. “Better hurry before I eat ‘em all.”
I took one and tasted it. It was wonderful—warm and chewy with lots of raisins and walnuts. It was clear to me why Chuck and Betty were a bit on the plump side, especially if she cooked like this routinely. “Mmm. Delicious.”
Chuck handed me a napkin and pulled a chair out for me to sit at the table. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the seat. “I don’t really know how to break this to you gently, so I guess I’ll just tell you straight out.”
Chuck frowned. “You mean about Lou?”
I was a little surprised. “What about Lou?” I asked.
“That someone killed him,” Chuck said.
“You know?”
“Yes. A detective came by last night to talk to us. He told me what happened.”
“Detective Wright?” I asked.
“That’s him. Nice fellow. I told him all I could about Lou. Don’t think I was much help,” Chuck said.
I was more than a little irritated that Sam didn’t tell me he’d spoken with Chuck. He told me the whole story about Arthur Simon, so why not Chuck? Maybe Chuck was right. Maybe he didn’t have anything to offer to the investigation, so Sam didn’t bring it up. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“So, did he ask you about the painting?” I asked.
“Painting? Oh, yes. The purple one. He wanted to know if I knew who painted it.”
“Do you?” I asked.
“No. That picture just showed up on Lou’s wall one day. I made a passing comment about it the day he hung it up. Think I might have made Lou mad.”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I think I said something like, ‘Good thing Maggie’s not around to see it.’ She hated purple, you know.”
“That’s true,” Betty said as she dropped spoonfuls of cookie dough onto a baking sheet. “We were twins. She hated purple from the day we were born. Wouldn’t wear it if her life depended on it. I always liked the color, so I wore it all the time. Worked out good because she’d hardly ever want to borrow my clothes.”
“So he got the painting after she died?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. I think he only had it a couple months before he died. Maggie’d been gone for a year or more,” Chuck explained.
“You don’t know where he got it, do you?”
Chuck shook his head. “No. After I said that Maggie wouldn’t like it, he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.”
I tapped my fingers on the table. “Did you know he played the lottery?”
“Twice a week. Never missed a draw, except when Maggie died. You could wallpaper his house with that box full of all those tickets he bought. He quit for a while, but we told him he needed to get back into the routine of things. He got really down.”
I nodded. I could certainly understand that. “Did you know the numbers he played?”
“You mean, like regular numbers?”
“Yes. Birthdays, anniversaries,” I said.
“I didn’t know he played any particular numbers.”
I studied Chuck’s face. My brain told me he could be lying, but something else said he was telling the truth. “What about his children? I understand he has a son and daughter?”
“Two sons, but Joey died right after Lou. Real sad,” Chuck said. I detected a faint quiver in his voice.
“What about the other son?” I asked.
“Frankie? He’s Up in Norwalk. He, uh, he doesn’t ever get out to visit anymore.”
I knew there was a state mental hospital in Norwalk. I laced my fingers together, trying to come up with a tactful way to ask if Frankie was still crazy. “Metropolitan State Hospital?”
Chuck nodded. “Yeah. As long as he takes his medication, he’s okay, but when he doesn’t, boy look out.”
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked.
“Paranoid schizophrenia. Put a scare into Lou and Maggie about fifteen or twenty years ago. Secret Service came knocking on their door one day wanting to know if Frankie was their son. Seems he’d made some threats against the president, and they were taking them seriously.”
“Was he serious?” I asked.
“He’s sick. The old Frankie was a sweet kid, but that disease, it takes over the brain. Got to where he didn’t know what was real and what was imagined. He thought the president was the devil. I think if he had the chance, he’d have done what he said. They had him committed and he never came home again.”
“There was that one time he escaped,” Betty reminded him.
“Oh, yeah. About five years ago, he went AWOL and hitchhiked all the way home. Lou and Maggie tried to keep him with them and take care of him, but he’d stopped taking his medication. They just couldn’t handle him. They finally called the hospital and asked them to come get him.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “Maybe someday we’ll be able to cure that disease. What about Lou’s daughter? I heard she’s in Africa?”
“Sister Nellie. That child wanted to help anyone and anything she could from the time she could walk. Always bringing home animals that were hurt or hungry. Lou’s place looked like a regular zoo while she was growing up. Lou thought she’d become a veterinarian, but when she got to be a teenager, she quit bringing home animals and started bringing home people instead. Homeless she’d find wandering the streets. Drunks she found passed out in the gutters. Troubled runaways who couldn’t go home. Lou finally had to put his foot down. He could handle the pets, but that’s where he drew the line.”
“Was she angry?” I asked.
“Angry? That girl would like to have boiled her father in oil when he made her turn those people out. She thought Maggie would be on her side, but when Maggie backed up Lou, Nellie felt deserted. She did her time there at home until she graduated from high school, then she joined the Peace Corps and took off for all those third-world countries.”
“She never came home?” I asked.
“Oh, she comes home every few years for a short visit, mostly for appearances, but we haven’t seen her for six years. When she heard that Lou and Maggie sent Frankie back to the hospital, she disowned the entire family.”
Betty gently slid a tray of cookies into the oven. “I’d like to see her try to handle that brother of hers. She had no idea what he was like,” she said, closing the oven door and setting the timer.
I started thinking about poor Lou Winnomore. It seemed his life was riddled with difficulties. “What about his other son? The one who passed away?”
“Joey. There’s another sad story. I’m just glad Lou wasn’t around for that. It would have torn him apart,” Chuck said.
“What happened?”
“Joey committed suicide, must have been about two weeks after Lou died. That’s when we found out about the mess he’d gotten himself into. Shot himself in the head with his service revolver. Bridgett would have killed him herself if he hadn’t done the job firs
t.”
“Bridgett? That’s his wife?”
Chuck nodded. “He’d had an affair and the other woman turned up pregnant. Boy, everything hit the fan when that news came out.”
“Does Bridgett live around here?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Over near the university. She’s trying to get a degree in something, I don’t remember what, so she can get a better job, now that she’s a single parent.
“You don’t know what she’s studying?”
“No. She’s pretty much divorced herself from Joey’s family. It’s like she thinks we supported what he did.”
I wondered what Bridgett might be capable of. The old saying about a woman scorned crossed my mind. She could have killed her cheating husband, then killed her father-in-law and stolen the lottery ticket to avoid splitting her son’s inheritance with the other boy. “Her name’s Bridgett Winnomore?”
“As far as I know, she hasn’t changed her name. If it weren’t for the boy, she’d probably go back to her maiden name.”
I took the last bite of my cookie and wiped my fingers on the napkin. “What about the other woman? Is she still in the picture?”
Betty laughed. “Oh, she’s in the picture, all right. Never saw a greedier woman in my entire life. I bet she spends more time in her lawyer’s office finding ways to get her hooks into other people’s money than she does at home with that baby. You know the ordeal we went through to sell the house because of her.”
“Do you think I could have her address? And Bridgett’s, too?” I asked.
“Sure. That detective already has their addresses. You might run into him if you go to see them,” Chuck said as he reached for a pen and paper and an address book near his phone.”
I certainly hoped I wouldn’t run into Sam. He’d kill me if he thought I was interfering with his investigation. I thanked Chuck for the information, and Betty for the cookies. She wrapped up a half-dozen for me to take.
I stared at the paper with the women’s addresses and wondered whom to visit first. I struggled with the decision for a while, then decided that under the circumstances, I’d rather face a bunch of mental hospital workers than either of those two women.
It’s quite a long drive from San Diego to Norwalk, so I stopped for lunch along the way. I’d just been seated in a booth near a window when Sam surprised me by sliding into the seat opposite me.
“Sam? What are you doing here?” I asked.
He opened a menu and studied the lunch specials. “Following you,” he said, still reading the menu.
“Why?”
“You’re headed for Norwalk,” he replied.
“So?”
He closed the menu and pushed it aside. “What do you think you’re going to do once you get there?”
“Find out if Frankie was AWOL when Lou died. Maybe see if he does any painting,” I replied, indignantly.
Sam laughed. “No one there is going to tell you anything. You’re just some stranger off the street.”
“I considered that. I had a plan,” I defended.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your plan?”
I opened my menu and began reading. “How’d you find me, anyway?”
“It was easy. I figured you’d go see Chuck, so I waited till you showed up, then tailed you here. You really ought to learn the tricks of the trade if you’re going to be a private investigator.”
“Who said I want to be a private investigator?”
“Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck…”
“Talks like a duck,” I corrected.
“Must be a duck. Why don’t you apply for your license? I could cut you a little more slack if you were legit.”
I continued reading the menu.
“So, come on. What’s your plan?” he insisted.
I scowled at him over the menu.
“Look. I’ve already talked to the folks at Metropolitan. Frank hasn’t been off the grounds for years,” Sam informed me.
“You talked to him?” I asked.
“No. I talked to one of the doctors. Frank’s not our guy.”
I closed my menu. “You owe me lunch.”
“I was hoping you’d forget.”
“Fat chance.”
“Okay. I’ll buy lunch, then we head back to San Diego,” Sam replied.
“No way. That wasn’t the deal. You owe me lunch. I’ve come this far, and I’m not going back until I see Frankie,” I insisted.
Sam followed me to the hospital, but I asked him to wait outside until I was finished. I walked into the reception area and glanced around. I could see a recreation room at the end of a hallway with people sitting randomly at various tables. A group of patients stared at a television that played an old “I Love Lucy” rerun. Trying to look like I’d been there before, I began strolling toward the rec-room. A woman sitting behind a desk caught me before I could wander any further.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes. Hi. I’m looking for Frank Winnomore. I understand he’s a patient here?”
She scrutinized me over her glasses. “Are you on the visitor list?”
I shook my head. “I wanted to know if he wants any of the things from his late father’s home before I sell them.”
The woman smiled. “That’s very considerate of you, but we have strict rules. Only approved visitors can see the patients. If you’re not on the list, then I’m afraid—“
“Nellie? Is that you?” a voice called from the TV room down the hall. A tall, thin man with long black hair trotted toward me, squinting as he bounced. He hadn’t shaved for a week, and I wasn’t sure he’d bathed, either. My lungs didn’t want to take a breath as soon as he got within arms length. “It is you! You came to see me, after all these years!” he called, stretching his arms out to embrace me.
“Frank? This is Nellie?” the woman behind the desk asked.
Frank? Could this be the Frank I’m looking for? I played along and put my arms around him. “Frank. It’s been a long time,” I said, patting his back and holding my breath.
Frank released me from his embrace and clutched my shoulders. “This is my dear sister, Nellie,” he said to the woman behind the counter. “I knew she’d come back one day, and here she is. Give her a visitor badge, Lucy. I want to take her on a tour.”
Lucy eyed me suspiciously. By the looks of her, she could have been a prison guard assigned to keep Charles Manson in line. She had the closest thing to a flattop haircut I’d ever seen on a woman. I halfway expected her to step out from behind the desk and frisk me. “Do you have any identification?” she asked.
I gave her a helpless look.
“She’s a missionary from Africa, Lucy! You think she runs around with a driver’s license and a charge card? Come on. She’s my sister. I haven’t had a visitor all year. Give her a badge and let me show her around,” Frank insisted.
“Passport?” Lucy suggested.
I shook my head. “Back at the hotel.”
“Lu-ceee,” Frank whined, holding his hands in a pleading fashion.
Lucy caved in and handed me a pen to sign in, and a badge to wear on my shirt pocket. She also shot me a look that could kill if it were loaded.
Frank grabbed me by the hand and led me toward a glass door that led outside. Suddenly, we were in a large park-like setting surrounded on all sides by the hospital walls. It was an atrium filled with plants and flowers and picnic tables. There was one other patient sitting at a table, playing with a puzzle. Frank bumped his chair and told him to scram. He collected his toys and scurried for the door. Then Frank took the man’s chair and sat down. I took the seat opposite him.
“So, who are you?” he asked.
“I’m not Nellie?” I replied.
He laughed. “Nellie is six-foot-two and has hair on her arms like a gorilla.”
A vision of Nellie flashed through my mind. “Oh. Well then, why did you say—?”
“I’m not in here for my hearing. I heard you tell Lucy about Dad’s
stuff. You bought his place?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes.”
“They’d never let you see me unless you were on their precious list. Nellie’s the only one on the list who Lucy hasn’t seen before.”
I stared at this man wearing hospital garb and wondered what I should think about him. Aside from speaking very slowly and moving somewhat sluggishly, he seemed quite aware. It didn’t take long to deduce that Frankie was sharper than anyone gave him credit for. He noticed my stare.
“What? You were expecting a moron? I’m schizoid, not retarded,” he snapped.
I smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I expected. You seem very—“
“Shut up, Melvin!” Frank hissed at the empty chair next to him. He shook his finger angrily at the vacant seat. “Mind your manners, or I’ll make you leave.”
I watched Frank reprimand some imaginary person sitting next to him and wondered if he really saw someone there, or if he was play-acting. He kept shooting quick, sideways glances at me while he scolded Melvin. I caught him suppressing a grin.
He finally relaxed and turned his attention back to me. “You have to excuse Melvin for his crudeness. He thinks you’re quite pretty, but he has no class. He won’t say another word, I promise.”
I smiled and nodded, as if I understood, but I couldn’t really relate to Frank’s disorder. I never had imaginary friends as a child. I never conversed with beings that weren’t really there. I cleared my throat uneasily and glanced at the empty chair. “Do you really see someone in that chair?” I asked.
Frank’s smile faded. “You don’t?”
“No.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, then he burst out into boisterous laughter. “I guess that’s why I’m in here and you’re not.”
