I smelled liquor on her breath.
“You were her caregiver,” I said. “Of course you’re invited.”
Allison glanced away and shook her head, as if she still doubted my sincerity.
I’d started this lie and Allison didn’t seem to be buying it. What could I do but run with it?
I pulled my cell phone from my tote bag. “Can I get your number so I can call you with the details?”
“I’m not coming to that,” Allison told me, and shoved my business card into her pocket. “Why would I?”
I paused for a few seconds, then gave her a sympathetic smile.
“I heard there was a disagreement between you and Genevieve,” I admitted.
“Yeah, I guess you could call it that.” She barked a hateful laugh. “Bitch made up lies about me, blamed me for things I didn’t do, threatened to get me fired.”
It seemed Allison wanted to talk. I wanted her to keep talking.
“You know, things are still being said about you,” I told her.
“What things?” she demanded.
“You were the last one to see Edith alive. You were the one who found her dead. You ran off to avoid the police.”
“I didn’t run off. What the hell was I supposed to do? Stand around and cry? Wring my hands? Pretend that old lady was something more than a paycheck to me?”
“You were the only one in the house when she died,” I pointed out. “People are suspicious.”
Allison gasped. “They think I killed that lady? Oh my God, they think that? Why would I do that?”
I shrugged. “There was money hidden in the house, a lot of money. So maybe you found out about it, decided to take it.”
“I never stole a thing from anybody. Never.”
“You quit your job suddenly,” I said. “The woman who answered the door—your mom, I guess?—is covering for you. It makes you look guilty.”
“I’m not guilty of anything. I’d had it with taking care of old people.” Allison jabbed the air between us with her finger. “You want somebody who looks guilty, you talk to that guy Ike, the one who drove her around. Ask him why he took her to that retirement home. Ask him what they did to her there. She always came back upset and confused, rambling on about things that didn’t make any sense, then having nightmares, seeing people who weren’t there, and crying in her sleep.”
An icky feeling swept over me. The image of the caregivers Ike had mentioned, Liza and Phil, flashed in my head.
“What people? Who were they?” I asked.
“I don’t know. People I never heard of.” Allison waved both arms, as if to dismiss the issue.
“Did she tell you their names? Give you any specifics?”
Allison clamped her mouth shut, then shook her head. “I’m not talking about this anymore.”
She went inside the house and slammed the door.
I raised my fist, ready to pound on the door, make her come back out and answer my questions. I knew it was pointless. I’d seen her type back in KCK, the kind of person who quit making their payments on the vehicle my uncles had financed for them and, when confronted, blew it off without another thought.
But no way was I going to let the issue drop.
I got in my car and left.
Delivering Carlotta Cain’s gown was the next item on my to-do list. I didn’t put her address into my GPS, just relied on my memory to find the way. Honestly, I didn’t care if I made a few wrong turns and it took forever to get there. I needed the time to think.
Darren, Barbara’s nephew, the family embarrassment, popped into my thoughts. He needed money and he often wheedled it out of Edith, even after Barbara had threatened to cut him off, it seemed. Maybe he didn’t want to take the chance that Barbara would succeed. Maybe he didn’t want to wait for nature to take its course and Edith to pass in her own time, to get his inheritance.
He could have known about the secret room—he’d surely been in and out of Edith’s house all of his life. Or maybe in a moment of confusion Edith had told him about it.
Still, the suspicious vehicle on the street that the neighbor had reported to the police—an old beater—didn’t sound like a car Darren would drive. Maybe he borrowed it from someone for cover. But why would he go to that trouble if he knew about the room and the cash? And why mess with the window alarm? Was it all to create a diversion? Keep suspicion off of himself?
“Good grief,” I mumbled, as I changed lanes and hit the exit ramp.
I mentally moved on to my other murder suspect.
Despite the gushing write-up on the Reynolds Health Care website, Allison definitely didn’t come across as a dedicated, concerned caregiver. That, of course, wasn’t evidence that she’d murdered Edith, but it didn’t exactly clear her of the crime.
Something was definitely amiss in the Bagley household. Genevieve wouldn’t have simply concocted the story about Allison’s drinking; I smelled it on her myself, so I felt it was true. Yet that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with Edith’s murder, especially since I’d come up with no evidence she knew about the cash hidden in the secret room.
Allison had pointed a finger at Ike Meador, Edith’s driver, and the staff at the Vista Village retirement home. She’d claimed Edith’s visits there weren’t as wonderful as Ike had led me to believe.
Was that true? Or had Allison made up the whole thing to throw suspicion off of herself and onto someone else?
The only way I’d find out was by visiting the retirement home.
I turned onto Carlotta Cain’s street and swung into her driveway. The neighborhood was quiet; Carlotta’s house looked as rundown as I remembered. I grabbed the garment bag out of the back and hurried up the sidewalk, my thoughts focused on how to get info out of somebody at Vista Village. I stopped, jarred by the sight of Carlotta’s front door standing open a few inches.
I swung around and looked again at the yard, thinking maybe Carlotta was nearby and I’d missed her, then looked up and down the street. I didn’t see her. I didn’t see anybody.
“Hello?” I called, and knocked on the door. It drifted open a little farther. “Hello? Ms. Cain? Hello?”
I got no answer. I rang the bell and waited. Nothing.
I didn’t feel right walking into the house, but I didn’t feel right walking away leaving the door standing open and not knowing if Carlotta was all right. I glanced around the neighborhood again, hoping to spot someone who might help, but still saw no one.
“Hello?” I called once more as I pushed the door open and walked into the foyer.
The smell of stale air hit me, as it had on my previous visit. Unlike last time, with the door wide open and sunlight pouring in, a layer of dust was visible on everything. A tiny cloud of loose dirt swirled across the floor in the breeze.
“Ms. Cain? Hello?”
There was no response, no sound at all in the house.
I shut the door behind me but didn’t lock it, then walked through the tiled foyer and stopped under the arched doorway to the living room. The closed drapes left it shrouded in gloom. The only light was from the television; the image of a young woman was frozen on the screen.
I had no idea where Carlotta was—maybe out back, or in the bathroom, or the shower. Nor did I have proof that anything was amiss, other than that she’d somehow forgotten to close her front door. I decided I’d leave the gown and call her later.
I walked farther into the room, deciding on a place to leave the garment bag, and spotted Carlotta lying on the sofa. She had on the same caftan I’d seen her in on my previous visit, the same jewelry. She was stretched out, sleeping. At least, I thought she was sleeping.
I paused and listened. I looked closely at her. She didn’t seem to be breathing.
Chapter 12
I felt kind of queasy standing by the sofa, looking down at Carlotta lying there. She was still, so very still. Still enough to be dead?
I wasn’t sure. I’d never seen a dead person before. Well, except for Gr
andma Pearl, but that had been just a quick glance with only one eye half open at her funeral.
I glanced around the room, for some reason, as if a person might materialize who would know what to do, who could take charge of this situation. I saw no one, of course.
If Carlotta was just sleeping, I didn’t want to wake her; seeing me, a near stranger standing over her, might push her into a stroke or heart attack and actually cause her to die. But if she really was dead, or in some extreme health crisis, I couldn’t just walk out and leave her like this.
I squeezed between sofa and the coffee table, staring, hoping to see her chest rise and fall with breaths. Seconds dragged by. I watched, but I couldn’t be sure. I stretched out my hand thinking I might detect air whooshing in and out of her nose. I felt nothing.
That queasy feeling in my stomach worsened.
For a fleeting moment I considered dropping to my knees and pressing my ear to her chest, but couldn’t bear the thought of making contact with whatever was likely living in the shag carpet.
I could call 911, turn the situation over to the professionals. But what if Carlotta was really sleeping? What if all those men and all their equipment showed up and all they did was wake her? Besides looking like an idiot, would I obligate Carlotta to pay the cost of their roll-out? Would she insist Fisher Joyce pay since I was the one who called them?
I had to find out what, exactly, I was dealing with.
“Ms. Cain?” I whispered.
She didn’t respond.
“Ms. Cain?” I gave her shoulder a quick poke. “Carlotta?”
Still nothing.
“Carlotta!”
She jerked awake. I jumped back, bumping the coffee table, my heart pounding.
Carlotta gazed up at me and blinked, then stretched languidly and sighed.
“Are they ready for me?” she asked softly. She blinked again and squinted at me. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
She was either stuck in a dream or confused—probably from lack of oxygen in this stuffy house.
I realized then that, for some reason, I was still clutching the garment bag.
“I’m Hollis Brannigan from Fisher Joyce,” I said, lifting the bag higher and waving my hand up and down in front of it. “I brought you the gown you wanted.”
A few more seconds passed while Carlotta stared at me. Recognition seemed to dawn on her. She sat up, smoothing her hair, her bracelets clanging as she straightened her caftan.
“Would you like to see it?” I asked, reaching for the bag’s zipper.
Carlotta’s gaze drifted to the television.
“It’s exactly what you asked for,” I told her.
Yes, I knew I was rushing her—something she’d definitely not liked about me on my previous visit—but this house, this situation, even Carlotta herself, was giving me the willies.
She pulled her gaze from the TV and frowned at me. “How did you get in here?”
“You left the front door open,” I explained, gesturing toward the archway and the foyer.
“I most certainly did not,” Carlotta insisted. She grumbled and shook her head. “Those neighbors. Always sneaking around here. Prying. Trying to see what I’m doing. Trying to get information about me.”
I couldn’t imagine any reason Carlotta’s neighbors would attempt to break into her house, or what possible information about her would be of any interest to them. More likely Carlotta had gone out to get her mail, then forgot to turn the lock when she came back inside.
“Jealous,” Carlotta mumbled. “Jealous. Resentful. They’re all alike. Friends, family. All of them. They’re all the same.”
Her gaze returned to the television.
“Ms. Cain? I’d like you to see the gown—”
“People will sell anything these days,” she muttered. “Because somebody, some nosy, lowlife reporter will buy it, print it, embellish it, speculate about it. Turn it into something salacious.”
I gave the garment bag a little shake. “I know you’re going to love the gown I found—”
“You young girls today, you have it so easy. Anything goes. Anything.” She waved her hand at the screen. “Back then, things were different. Everything had to be handled just so. Things had to be taken care of. Gotten rid of. As if it were shameful.”
Carlotta stared at the TV for a few seconds more, lost in memories, or the still image of the young woman on the screen, or something else. Finally, she turned to me.
“Now, show me my gown.”
Somehow she’d flipped an internal switch bringing her back to the moment. I didn’t question it.
I unzipped the garment bag and pulled out the gown.
“It’s exactly what you requested,” I said. “Black, beaded, long sleeves, size four, and in your price range. I think it’s perfect for you.”
Carlotta made a tsking sound and turned up her nose.
“Cocktail length,” she told me. “I need cocktail length. Floor length won’t do.”
“You didn’t mention you wanted cocktail length,” I said, and couldn’t help sounding a bit testy.
“I expected you to know that,” she insisted, sounding testier that I had. “It’s impossible to find a good tailor these days. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you. You should be aware.”
I swallowed my annoyance and zipped the dress into the garment bag.
“No problem,” I said. “Is there anything else you want, or don’t want, in your gown—specifically?”
“Aren’t you expected to use your best judgement? Isn’t that what your job entails?” Carlotta demanded. She shook her head. “You young girls today. You don’t know what real work involved, back in my time. What was expected of us. What wasn’t allowed. What the consequences were. Now, anything goes. You girls have no appreciation of how easy and simple you have it.”
I’d been down a road similar to this one during my last visit here and I wasn’t anxious to make the trip again. I hefted the garment bag over my shoulder.
“I’ll let you know when I find another gown.” I eased away, leaving Carlotta staring at the TV again.
By the time I reached the front door I was desperate for a breath of fresh air, and was dismayed to hear footsteps behind me in the foyer. With the door standing open and the sunlight beaming in, Carlotta looked older, yet somehow vaguely familiar.
“I’ll get a cocktail length gown for you as quickly as possible,” I said and stepped outside.
Carlotta’s gaze darted from me, to my car in the driveway, to the street, and the neighbors’ houses. Her eyes widened and shifted, then narrowed as she stared at me again. She slammed the door. I waited until I heard the lock turn, then left.
***
I parked in a Vista Village Retirement Community space designated for visitors just as my phone chimed. After dealing with Carlotta, I wasn’t all that anxious to go inside and take on more elderly people so I spent a few minutes checking my messages.
Not much was happening. Louise had sent requests from two of my off-listers; one needed three pairs of Roberto Cavalli jeans and the other wanted a wine gift basket. I knew where I could get them but the locations weren’t close to each other. I’d have to hustle to get them back to Fisher Joyce.
The last message was from Meredith asking me to come by her desk when I got back to the office. I wondered if that meant she’d decided to see her boyfriend’s parents after all and needed my advice on what to wear.
Since that was it for distractions, I went online and checked out the Vista Village site. It called itself a boutique retirement community large enough to accommodate the most discriminating resident yet small enough to provide compassionate, personal care. Dozens of photos of smiling elderly people and caregivers attested to their claim. Emphasis was placed on activities and quality of life, as required by each resident’s needs and preferences, in a safe, nurturing environment. Whoever had built Vista’s website made the place look great.
I spent a few more minutes check
ing out the amenities and staff. Unlike the Reynolds Health Care site, there were no photos of the employees, only upper management. I’d hoped to get a look at the two people who’d assisted Edith on her visits here, but no luck.
Finally, with no reason left to stall, I turned my thoughts to the task at hand—finding a suspect, a lead, or some evidence that would allow me to solve Edith’s murder.
At this point, Sadie was the only person I knew to talk to. She’d known Edith for most of her life, plus she knew all about the retirement home. I hoped she could give me some info, something I could use to figure out what had happened to Edith.
It wasn’t much of a lead. All I could do was hope it would turn into something useful.
I’d received contradictory info from Ike Meador and Allison Garvey about Vista Village. Ike had told me that Edith loved coming here, while Allison insisted Edith had such dreadful experiences she suffered nightmares and hallucinations that caused her to cry in her sleep.
I really hoped Ike was right. Thinking that something bad had happened to Edith on her visits here made my blood boil.
I got out of the car. Mine was the only vehicle in the parking spots designated for visitors. A sign indicated staff parking was located behind the building. I wondered why the management here had thought the security measure was necessary since, judging from the near-empty visitor parking lot, not many people were here checking on loved ones. Maybe it picked up during holidays.
The building was one story, spread out over a lushly landscaped lot. The place looked serene, peaceful, comfortable—just what people wanted in their later years, I supposed, and exactly as described on Vista’s website.
I followed the sidewalk, avoided the wheelchair ramp, and went through the double doors. The lobby was spacious. Natural light beamed in through the windows. The furniture, walls, and tile floor were varying shades of soothing blue. A reception desk was situated off to the left manned by a woman who looked as I’d always imagined Martha Washington looked in her later years. She was the only person in the room.
Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery) Page 10
