I stopped in front of her desk and waited to be acknowledged, as polite society required. The woman kept shifting papers around—again, I was the only person in the lobby—ignoring me.
“Excuse me,” I said.
A few more seconds passed and she finally looked up, plastering on a half-smile as if she’d only just realized I was standing there.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure if there was some protocol for visiting a resident, if I had to be on an approved list, or if I needed to state a specific reason for my visit. Explaining that I wanted to talk to Sadie—whose last name I didn’t know—because I met her daughter Genevieve while investigating a murder for which there was no official involvement by authorities didn’t seem like a good idea.
“I’m here to see Sadie,” I said, as if everyone everywhere knew who Sadie was and routinely came to visit.
Apparently, the receptionist saw nothing amiss with my request. She tapped on her computer keyboard, studied the screen, then said, “Sadie’s in room 12D, but you’ll probably find her in the community room.”
I thanked her and headed down the corridor, deeper into the building, following the signs to the community room. Everything was sparkling clean and smelled pine fresh. Caregivers passed me wearing scrubs in a variety of colors and patterns, all of them smiling and nodding pleasantly at me. Some of them pushed wheelchair-bound residents, others crept along steadying slow movers on walkers.
The community room, when I found it, seemed to be the happening place. About two dozen men and women were scattered throughout the large area, seated in wheelchairs or on the comfy-looking furniture. Caregivers moved around the room tending to those who needed assistance.
Everyone was watching TV, playing cards, reading, or chatting in groups. There were shelves of books and board games, and a table with a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. Windows let in lots of sunlight and provided a view of the landscaped grounds.
So far I hadn’t seen anything likely to induce Edith’s night terrors, nor had I seen any sort of lead or clue to her murder. I hoped that Sadie would provide something useful that would move my investigation forward—which brought up my next problem: I had no idea what Sadie looked like. How would I find her to talk to her?
I should have thought of that sooner, been prepared.
A wave of despair washed over me.
How was I ever going to solve Edith’s murder, keep my job, get promoted to the investigations unit, and find my sister?
Chapter 13
I didn’t think it would be a smart move to admit that I was here to visit a total stranger, so I came up with a quick plan. I approached one of the caregivers, a tall, broad-shouldered guy in dark blue scrubs who was straightening board games on the shelving unit.
“Excuse me?” I said, trying to sound confused.
He stopped his chore and turned to me. “Can I help you?”
I glanced at his nametag. It read “Phil Leonard.” He was one of the caregivers Ike had mentioned.
“I’m here to see Sadie,” I said. “I told her I’d meet her here in the community room. She’s expecting me. But I can’t find her. I don’t know why she isn’t here. I don’t want to just leave and disappoint her. Did she go out somewhere, or—”
“Sadie’s over there,” he said without bothering to glance around. “By the window, reading.”
His response was kind of short, which made me think he was used to dealing with the confused people who lived here but had limited patience for the rest of us.
I leaned around him, squinting. “She is?”
“Yeah. Right there,” he told me, still not bothering to turn around. “In the blue blouse.”
“Oh my God.” I smacked myself in the forehead. “She’s right there. How did I miss her? What’s the matter with me?”
Phil didn’t respond, just went back to stacking the board games on the shelves.
Apparently, the compassionate care touted on the Vista Village website was extended only to paying residents.
I crossed the room to where Sadie sat in an armchair, reading. Her gray hair was styled and cut short. She had on a little lipstick, and wore a crisp blouse, stretch pants, and slippers. A slight resemblance to her daughter Genevieve was evident in the shape of her mouth and nose, along with the wrinkles that suggested a lifetime of hard work.
“Sadie?” I asked, stepping in front of her. When she looked up I smiled and introduced myself. “Genevieve told me you were here, so I thought I’d stop by.”
Sadie studied me for a few seconds, then closed her book. “You know Genevieve?”
“I’m working for Mrs. Walker-Pierce. I met Genevieve at Edith Bagley’s house,” I explained. “Is it all right if we visit for a bit?”
“Well, I suppose so. A little visit wouldn’t hurt anything, now would it?” Sadie laid her book aside. “We don’t get many visitors here.”
I pulled a large ottoman over from a nearby chair and sat down in front of Sadie. I was sure Genevieve had told her mom about Edith’s passing—at least I hoped she had. I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to her.
Another woman shuffled over and dropped heavily into a chair close to Sadie. She wore a flowered, loose-fitting housedress, and slippers that barely fit her swollen feet.
One of the caregivers, a young woman probably about my age, accompanied her. The scrubs she wore had aqua-colored pants and a top with adorable kittens tangled in balls of yarn. Her dark hair was cut super short.
The older woman grumbled under her breath and shifted uncomfortably in the chair. The caregiver presented her with a stack of magazines, fanning them out to display the covers.
Sadie gave them both a sideling glance, then turned back to me.
“So you’ve been to Miss Edith’s house?” Sadie asked.
“Yes, I was there a few days ago,” I said.
A sad smile pulled at her lips. “Goodness, I haven’t been in that house for a long time now. A long, long time.”
“I don’t think anything has changed much,” I offered.
Sadie gave me a faint smile, then pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“Terrible thing … terrible. Bound to happen. We all get called home, eventually. I’ll miss her, though. Miss her something terrible.”
“I understand you and Miss Edith had known each other most of your lives,” I said.
Beside us, the woman selected one of the magazines.
Sadie’s smile widened. “We were both just young girls. Close as sisters, we were, even though I worked for the family. We hit it off right away.”
I smiled along with her. “You two must have shared some good times, lots of big occasions.”
“We did, we sure did. Everything from school, to college, to marriage and everything after that.”
“You went with Miss Edith when she married,” I said. “It must have been exciting, moving into that lovely house on June Street.”
The woman next to us shooed the caregiver away and murmured, “Leave me alone. I know what you’re trying to do.”
“That was quite a house. Mr. Conrad, he bought it for Miss Edith. A wedding gift.” Sadie’s smile dimmed. “Miss Edith wasn’t the happiest bride, but she learned to love everything.”
“She had that beautiful home, all those new furnishings, and she wasn’t happy?” I asked.
Sadie leaned forward a bit and lowered her voice. “Well, it wasn’t the house that was the problem, if you get my meaning.”
I didn’t.
“It was the emptiness of it,” Sadie said.
“Oh,” I said, nodding. “No children.”
“Mr. Conrad, he never held it against Miss Edith,” Sadie said. “But she … she never really got over everything. It always haunted her.”
I wasn’t sure how my conversation intended to discover a clue to Edith’s murder, had turned into an infertility discussion.
“I understand Miss Edith visited you frequently,”
I said. “Ike drove her here.”
“Just like the old days,” Sadie said and laughed softly. I could almost see the memories playing through her head. “Miss Edith was generous. Kind and generous.”
“So she liked coming here?” I asked.
The woman nearby swatted at the caregiver with her magazine. “Stop hovering. I know what you’re up to.”
“Miss Edith came as often as she could. Every week, usually,” Sadie said. “She visited with lots of folks here.”
Phil, who’d helped me locate Sadie, walked over and conferred with the young caregiver clutching the magazines.
“I heard that Miss Edith was upset after her visits here,” I said.
A man rolled up to the window in a wheelchair and stared outside. He was stooped and thin, with tufts of gray hair circling his head.
Sadie frowned and drew back a little. “Upset? Who told you she was upset?”
“Allison Garvey,” I said.
She paused for a few seconds, then her lips turned down. “I don’t know anybody named Allison Garvey.”
“She was Miss Edith’s night nurse.”
“The one from that Reynolds place?” Sadie huffed irritably. “Oh, yes, I know about that Allison Garvey. Genevieve told me all about her. Trouble. Nothing but trouble from the get-go.”
The caregiver who’d helped the woman seated nearby approached the man in the wheelchair and offered him the magazines.
“Allison told me Miss Edith came back from her visits here very upset,” I explained again. “She said that Miss Edith talked about things that didn’t make sense. She had nightmares, and saw people who weren’t there. She cried in her sleep.”
Sadie’s frown deepened. “You’re sure about that?”
“That’s what Allison told me,” I said.
Sadie shook her head. “I don’t like it. I don’t like her saying things like that.”
“You don’t believe her?” I asked.
“She’s got no business saying that kind of thing,” Sadie insisted. “No business at all. She’s lucky anybody hired her and let her stay in such a fine home. June Street. Hancock Park. Not everybody gets to work in a nice place. Allison shouldn’t be talking like that.”
“She seemed sincere. I felt like she was telling the truth,” I said.
“She was the night nurse. That’s all. Nothing else was her concern,” Sadie said.
Allison had seemed sure about what she’d told me, but Sadie seemed just as sure that none of it was true.
“I’ll go talk to Allison again,” I said. “I’ll ask her for specifics, get more details.”
Sadie’s gaze darted around the room for a few seconds, then she sighed heavily and turned to me again.
“You know, it was probably nothing, loose talk is all,” she said. “It’s best to just let it go.”
I couldn’t let it go. It was my best lead in Edith’s murder. And even if it had nothing to do with her death I still wanted to know if it was true, and find out who was responsible for upsetting Edith and why.
“I don’t feel right letting it go,” I said.
“Don’t call me that!” The man in the wheelchair shouted at the female caregiver.
Phil stepped in with an easy swagger and a no-big-deal smile. “Mr. Arrington, my man. Take it easy. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a slip. That’s all.”
“I’ve told you people over and over!” the man exclaimed, the blue veins popping out in his hands as he clenched the arms of his wheelchair.
The caregiver glanced around and saw us staring.
“He gets confused a lot,” she said. “He doesn’t always know what’s going on.”
“I’m not confused,” the man shouted. “Stop saying that! I know what I’m talking about.”
“Sure you do,” Phil said. “Of course you do.”
Sadie pushed out of her chair and turned sharply away.
“Let’s take a walk,” she said to me, and struck off across the room.
I fell in step with her, out of the community room, down a hallway, and through double doors that opened onto the grounds at the rear of the building. Paved paths wound through shrubs and flowerbeds, trees provided shade. Benches were plentiful.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the incident in the community room or Sadie’s reaction to it. She didn’t keep me in suspense.
“This is a nice place to live. Don’t get me wrong,” she said as we headed down one of the paths. “I appreciate everything Miss Edith does for me, and so does everybody else here that she takes care of.”
“But?”
“It’s just like living anywhere. You’ve got to be careful. Careful with your things. Careful about what you say. Careful about who you talk to and in front of.”
I thought about Phil. He hadn’t been particularly nice when I’d asked for his help finding Sadie. He was a huge guy. Tall, muscular. And all the residents were frail and vulnerable.
“You don’t feel safe here?” I asked.
“All I’m saying is you’ve got to watch out for who’s around.”
The other caregiver, the young woman whose nametag I hadn’t seen, appeared pleasant enough and anxious to assist the residents, though it seemed she’d been more of an annoyance than a help.
I stopped. Sadie stopped too.
“I have to know the truth. What happen to Miss Edith here?” I asked. “Why was she upset when she left?”
“Being here, living here, visiting here … it’s all upsetting.”
“Did someone hurt her?”
Sadie shook her head. “No. Nobody would hurt Miss Edith.”
I remembered something Ike Meador had told me about Edith’s visits here.
“Lisa used to escort Miss Edith when she visited,” I said. “Should I ask Lisa?”
“I’d stay away from Lisa, if I were you.”
“Why’s that?”
“You saw for yourself.” Sadie nodded back down the path. “You saw how she acts, hovering, listening. Most of them are like that, but she’s one of the worst.”
It took me a few seconds to make the connection.
“That girl, the one with the magazines,” I said. “That was Lisa?”
“Always calling Drew by his first name. She knows he doesn’t like it. Claims she forgets,” Sadie said. “Drew thinks he’s supposed to be addressed more formally, wants to be called ‘Mr. Arrington,’ thinks it’s due him since Miss Edith pays for his care here.”
“Did he work for her?”
“Miss Edith was a very generous woman. She helped out many, many people.”
“He seemed very upset,” I said. “He knows about her death?”
Sadie glanced away and, when she turned back, tears misted her eyes.
“Drew took it hard, real hard,” she whispered.
I wondered what would happen to Sadie and Drew, and the other people Edith supported in the retirement home, now that she was gone. Had provisions been made to continue their care? Were they wondering the same things?
“I’ve got to get back inside,” Sadie said, as if our short walk had drained all of her energy. “You come back and visit anytime you like. I’m always glad for company.”
As we headed back down the path I glanced at the building. Phil stood at the window watching us.
Chapter 14
Shopping for and buying the Roberto Cavalli jeans and the wine basket took a lot longer than I’d anticipated. Nordstrom was packed, making checking out difficult. The shop on Melrose that carried the best wine baskets had sold out, so I had to go to another place to find what I knew my off-lister would want. Traffic, which was always slow, had barely crawled forward as the massive office buildings emptied for the day.
I pulled up to the valet in the Fisher Joyce parking garage and got out as my phone buzzed. Barbara Walker-Pierce’s name blazed on the ID screen. I’d avoided giving her any real info, but knew I couldn’t put her off much longer. Juggling the jeans, the wine basket, and Carlotta Cain’s gown
that I needed to return, I answered as I headed for the shipping department.
“What have you learned?” Barbara asked.
Her tone was formal, businesslike, the sound of a woman who expected her questions to always be answered promptly.
“The investigation is moving forward,” I told her.
“Not completed yet?” she asked, sounding more than a little miffed. “I expected this matter to be concluded by now.”
“I’m making progress,” I assured her.
“The memorial service is approaching,” Barbara told me. “I don’t want this issue to remain unresolved on that occasion.”
“I understand,” I said, though I was tempted to tell her that an issue such as this couldn’t be put on the timetable of her choosing. To distract her from asking more questions, I said, “I’m finished with Mrs. Bagley’s address book. I’ll return it to Genevieve today.”
Barbara didn’t respond for a long moment, then said, “This is not the service I expected from you.”
A jolt of fear shot through me. Barbara wasn’t happy. So unhappy that she would change her mind about wanting to keep this situation with her aunt confidential, and call Fisher Joyce to complain and ask for another investigator?
A vision of the chaos filled my thoughts—the head of the investigations department stunned, at a complete loss; Andy Edmonds getting called into his office; Andy ratting me out. The imagined scene ended with me getting yelled at, humiliated, and fired, then moved on to me not finding another job and ending up broke and living in a cardboard box in an underpass on the 405.
Still, I refrained from filling the silence with empty promises, or telling Barbara that I felt her suspicions were correct and Edith had, in fact, been murdered. Neither of those things would help my situation.
“Keep me informed,” Barbara finally said, and ended the call.
Instead of being relieved that I’d gotten a pass—this time—my anxiety level amped up even further.
I hurried into the prep room, wrapped and packaged the jeans and the wine basket for delivery, then tagged Carlotta Cain’s gown for return. I filled out the necessary paperwork and entered it into the computer, then carried it all to the shipping counter.
Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery) Page 11
