by Jada Ryker
Starla’s thin cheeks flushed with shame. “You’re right, Flora May. I’d never abandon our patients. They need us so much, and for many of them, we’re all they have. Most of the family members simply dump them in here and forget about them.”
Relenting, Flora May smiled. “Considering our chances of winning the lottery are slim to none, I don’t think we need to worry about becoming ladies of leisure.” Flora May added meditatively, “Although if we did, I’m sure we could bring ourselves to allow the paid staff to take care of the patients’ behinds.”
Starla rolled her eyes. “Anyway, the younger Mrs. States had traveled to Tennessee to visit her mother.” Starla deepened her voice theatrically. “On a stormy, windy night, she returned to the house. She wasn’t expected until the next day, but she wanted to surprise her husband.” Starla giggled. “I’m sure he was extremely surprised when she walked into the bedroom and caught him in bed with one of the maids. At first she was shocked, and then she started screaming at him. She grabbed her husband’s loaded revolver from the night stand where he kept it to protect the family from burglars. She then proceeded to pump several bullets into her husband. The crazed woman then turned the gun on the maid, who cowered away from her in terror. When Mrs. States pulled the trigger, it clicked harmlessly. She had spent all of the bullets on her husband.”
Flora May hit the table with a large, clenched fist. “That low-down, cheating snake got exactly what he deserved. If my Herbert had ever done anything like that, I would have carved him up and fed him to the pigs. God rest his soul,” she added belatedly, in a more subdued tone.
Starla shivered at the thought of her friend’s ire had the staid and upright Herbert ever strayed from the straight and narrow path Flora May insisted upon. There were some unkind neighbors who had sworn the downtrodden Herbert had opted for the grave as his only escape from the exacting Flora May. Starla, however, always staunchly defended her friend from such unfair remarks. “There’s more to the story, Flora May. Mr. States lay dead or dying and the maid, splattered with his blood, was screaming the house down. Mrs. States was hurling abuse at the top of her lungs. Mr. States’ elderly mother must have heard all the commotion. She burst into the room. The old woman looked at her dead son, and then at the gun in her daughter-in-law’s hand. She grabbed the younger Mrs. States by the throat and tried to overpower her. Because she was taller and younger, Mrs. States managed to twist out of the elderly woman’s grasp. As Mrs. States ran from the house into the pouring rain, her mother-in-law screamed, ‘I’m going to make you pay for this. I’ll never rest until I make you pay! I’ll never give up, never, even when I’m in my grave!’”
“Did Mrs. States manage to get away? I hope so, because my sympathy is definitely with her!”
Starla shook her head vigorously, sending the limp blonde hair flying around her oblong head. “The chauffeur, who was preparing to put Mrs. States’ car in the garage, heard the hubbub. Mrs. States was flying toward the car, obviously to get away, and the elder Mrs. States was pounding down the steps in hot pursuit of her quarry, screaming at the top of her lungs. The chauffeur made a split-second decision and tackled the younger Mrs. States. He held her, kicking and screaming, until the authorities arrived to arrest her. Wasn’t that brave of him?”
Flora May was cynical. “I wonder how much of his bravery was motivated by the fact the old woman was the money bags of the family?”
Starla pulled out a warm sheet, enjoying the heat on her stiff, tired hands. “His good deed was certainly rewarded. When she died, the old woman left the chauffeur a corner of the property and enough money to build an impressive mansion.”
Flora May’s hands stilled in the sturdy folds of clean white cotton. “The older guy who tromps around in the woods is the chauffeur?”
Starla was surprised. “You know him?”
Her heavy-featured face brick red, Flora May abruptly raised the sheet so her face was obscured by the snowy material. The only part of her visible was Flora May’s dark spiral of stiff hair.
“Flora May?” Attempting to peer over the top, Starla tugged at the enveloping sheet. “Are you blushing?”
Flora May’s hoarse voice was muffled behind the white fabric. “It’s no big deal.”
“If it’s no big deal, then tell me how you know him.”
Resignedly, Flora May lowered the sheet. “One day I was waiting for a staff meeting to start, and I decided to kill some time with a stroll around the grounds. When I glimpsed the sun on the river through the trees, I walked down the slope to get a closer look. There was a skinny little guy sitting on the bank, fishing. I just chatted with him for awhile.” Flora May shrugged her large shoulders. “End of story.”
Something in Starla’s stance caught her attention. Flora May peered down at her friend, who was bent over the linen in her hands. She was surprised at the wistfulness in the vulnerable curve of Starla’s cheek and a single tear on the pale cheek.
The softness in the thin, gentle face turned to speculation. “You know, Flora May, he’s really not old. My mother—I mean somebody—told me the chauffeur was quite young when the scandal took place. You’ve been a widow for over a year now, and you’re not even forty years old yet. You could get married again and maybe even have some babies—”
“Whoa! I said I talked to the man, not I fell in love with him and asked him to marry me!”
Starla sniffed. “It would have been so romantic if you had!”
Flora May narrowed her bulgy eyes. She’d always thought her friend was happy living with her mother and working at the nursing home.
Flora May thought hard. Perhaps it was time for her to go into her matchmaking mode...what about the young man who’d bought a bunch of pigs from her last week? His face was good-natured under the wide-brimmed hat, and he had handled the rambunctious piglets deftly and gently. Hhhhmmmm. The boy had mentioned he intended to go to the church picnic next weekend. Flora May remembered the bashful way he’d kicked at the gravel in the driveway when, under her adroit questioning, he’d shyly admitted he didn’t have a date.
Starla reached for another sheet to fold, her momentary vulnerability whisked away like a leaf by the summer breeze. “—I bet if you saw the ghost, you’d stand right up to it!” Starla’s face was full of admiration for her assertive friend. “You are so strong! I wish I was more like you.”
Flora May was startled out of her planning. “I like you just the way you are,” stated Flora May in staunch loyalty, conveniently forgetting all of the times she’d brusquely ordered her friend to stop acting like a scared rabbit. She had known Starla since grade school, even though her small friend had been several grades behind her, and Flora May loved Starla like a sister.
Starla’s pale eyes were wide with surprised affection. “Thank you, Flory. I love you, too.”
Uncomfortable with maudlin emotions as well as fearful of an imminent hug, Flora May cleared her throat. “By the way, what happened to the younger Mrs. States? I don’t suppose they gave her a medal for ridding the world of vermin.”
“They convicted her of voluntary manslaughter, and sentenced her to several years in prison.”
Flora May looked at Starla curiously. “Over the years, I’ve only heard vague hints about the tragedy. How do you know so much about it?”
Starla intently stared at the sheet she was folding into a neat square. “I must have heard the story somewhere,” she mumbled without looking up.
Flora May narrowed her eyes. Hadn’t she heard her great-aunt mention Starla’s mother had worked many years ago as a maid in this very house when she’d been a young woman? At the time, Flora May had thought her great-aunt had had a funny look on her face when she’d said it. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Flora May’s great-aunt had immediately changed the subject. And just a moment ago, Starla had said “her mother” and then hastily corrected herself. “I’m glad the nasty, cheating dog got what he deserved. I feel sorry for his wife and his mother.”
“Starla! I’m going to take you out to the river and dunk some sense into you! I told you there’s no such thing.”
“Old Mrs. States is wandering these halls, looking for her daughter-in-law so she can wreak vengeance for the death of her son!” Starla’s weak little chin quivered, but she refused to back down.
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Flora May grabbed a towering stack of neatly folded sheets and deftly slid them onto one of the shiny aluminum shelves lining the far wall.
Since she was too short to reach the shelf, Starla offered her stack of folded linen to the taller woman. “I think we should slip in here some night when we’re off, and see if we can catch a look at the ghost.”
Flora May nearly dropped the pile of sheets. “Starla May Farrell, I enjoy my nights off too much to spend them lurking the halls, looking for a ghost which doesn’t even exist!” She slammed the stack onto the shelf. “We’re nearly finished here. If you don’t want to spend the rest of the time in total silence, you’d better think of something else to talk about.”
The hurt, chastened silence lasted a full two minutes before Starla perked up. “What did you think when we saw Mr. Napier sneaking out of Mrs. Flaxton’s room with her earlier tonight?”
“I think the old stallion wasn’t satisfied with all of the old gray mares prancing around him and decided to go after the one mare who tossed her head in indifference to him.” A bottle of disinfectant in one hand and a paper towel in the other, Flora May briskly cleaned the table.
“Maybe he’s the kind of man who likes to be the one who does the chasing. Lord knows he’s got most of the women in the nursing home in hot pursuit of him.” Starla smiled dreamily. “He does seem to be quite romantic. Mrs. Craft is firmly convinced he is a retired member of British Intelligence. She said she was sure Mr. Napier had completed many dangerous missions for MI6.”
Flora May rolled her eyes. “And how does Mrs. Craft explain Mr. Napier’s conspicuous lack of an English accent?”
With both hands, Starla grabbed Flora May’s arm, stopping the swirling action of the paper towel over the table’s surface. “What if the ghost—” She corrected herself hastily as Flora May’s face darkened in anger. “What if the person who is dressing up as a ghost is actually a secret agent? Couldn’t he be using the ghost outfit as a disguise, and sneaking in here to make contact with Mr. Napier? Maybe the future of the free world rides on Mr. Napier and—” Starla broke off abruptly as she became aware of a presence in the doorway. “Mrs. Flaxton!”
“Looks like you ladies are nearly finished with the laundry,” Althea remarked in a low, pleasant voice from the doorway. Her small, white hand fragile on the handle of her cane, she moved further into the hot, cramped room. “I wanted to ask you if you’d mind changing Mrs. Kenton before you go. I am afraid her adult diaper wasn’t quite effective, and there’s a large pool beneath her wheelchair.”
“We’d be glad to, Mrs. Flaxton.” Starla wondered uneasily how much Mrs. Flaxton had heard of the conversation. She didn’t want to offend the quiet, soft-spoken resident.
Flora May gave the clean laundry a final pat. “Poor Mrs. Kenton. Maybe it is a blessing in disguise she’s not in her right mind any longer.”
Althea was surprised. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”
Flora May’s moon-round face softened into lines of gentle compassion. “You’ve seen Mrs. Kenton gripping that bedraggled baby doll to her bosom? Mrs. Kenton’s daughter was horribly murdered twenty years ago. Mayla Kenton was a pretty twenty-year-old student, attending the University of Louisville on a music scholarship. With her dark hair down to her ass—I mean bottom—and her huge brown eyes set in a model-beautiful face, Mayla had her whole life ahead of her.”
“That’s right! I vaguely remember the newspaper stories. They said that when Mayla played the piano, it was if she touched people’s emotions with her fingers.” Starla’s gentle eyes filled with tears.
Shaking her head with pity, Flora May took Althea’s arm and gently steered her to the laundry room door. “When a serial arsonist burned Mrs. Kenton’s home as a part of his or her plan of doom, Mayla died. The young woman had been asleep in her own room, too ill to accompany her parents on their vacation to Florida. The police’s theory was the arsonist had not known Mayla was in the house, since the previous fires had consumed empty homes. When the fires stopped after Mayla’s death, the newspapers had speculated the arsonist had been overcome by a sense of guilt. Whether or not Mayla’s death was intentional or not, the outcome was the same. She was dead.”
“Poor Mrs. Kenton. Let’s go get her changed, Flora May. It’s the least we can do.”
After the two nursing assistants left the laundry room, Althea called softly, “Clay? Are you all right?”
Clay Napier rose stiffly, using his braced cane to pull himself up from behind the large, wheeled container used for soiled linen. The acoustics of the small room caught the various pops and cracks of his joints as he slowly unfolded from his pretzel-like position.
“I’m just glad they didn’t discover me crouched down back here. It would have been very difficult to explain why I was hunkered down behind the dirty linen barrel.” He hobbled over to her, silently cursing his stiff knees.
“I didn’t want to ruin anything for you, but I was getting worried about you.” Althea tugged her white sweater more securely onto her shoulders. “Did you find out anything?”
Clay hesitated, knowing he’d definitely edit out the comments about himself and Althea. “I’m not sure how important—” His sharp ears caught the staccato tap-tap of high heels.
Clay hooked his cane over his arm, put his arms around Althea, and pressed his lips firmly to hers. When she began to struggle, he pressed her more tightly against him. Her lips were warm against his, and her shoulders felt soft and delicate.
“What’s going on here? Shall I get a bucket of cold water?”
Clay released Althea, and turned to face Anna Hill, the nursing home administrator. He smiled charmingly, but her lips remained pressed in a grim line. “I apologize, Mrs. Hill. My little turtledove and I got carried away.”
Mrs. Hill cocked her head, every short, wavy blonde hair on her head firmly sprayed into place. “I think it would more discreet of you to go to the privacy of either of your rooms.” The light catching the large diamonds and emeralds of her rings, the administrator toyed with the bright green print scarf draped elegantly over the shoulder of her pale green suit. “I expected something like this from you, Mr. Napier, with your flock of little turtledoves, but Mrs. Flaxton?” The stern face turned to the older woman, and one thinly plucked brow rose in surprise.
Althea was furious to be placed in such an undignified position. She brought her cane down sharply on Clay’s elegantly shod foot. When he cried out in pain, she smiled prettily in apology. “I’m so sorry, my little pigeon. Mrs. Hill, I assure you—”
“We’ll be more discreet in the future,” Clay finished hastily, rubbing his aching foot unobtrusively with his uninjured one. He managed a smile for Mrs. Hill. “If you’ll excuse us, dear lady?”
Mrs. Hill didn’t budge. Her tall, solid figure was perfectly still. She pulled her gold rimmed half glasses from her nose, and twirled them around by the stem in her manicured fingers. “I realize senior citizens have needs. I try not to be prudish or churlish about it. However, it would have been very disruptive if one of the residents had stumbled on this little scene.” She smiled faintly, but the hardness in her light blue eyes didn’t lessen. “One of Mr. Napier’s admirers could have started a riot.”
As Clay’s mouth opened in protest, Mrs. Hill raised a halting palm. “If this little—incident—is repeated in public ever again, I’ll be forced to transfer one or the other of you to another facility.” Her smile widened, showing sharp white teeth. “You may not find th
e next nursing home as—comfortable—as this one.”
Althea shivered. The nursing home administrator’s words had slithered down her spine as if they were a threat.
* * * * *
Dawn was breaking, streaking the sky overhead with broad brushstrokes of pink and lavender.
Twisting her head around to see if anyone was watching, Flora May self-consciously slipped into the woods behind the nursing home. In the thick trees of the forest, it was darker and dawn seemed further away. The dark trunks were shrouded with white mist, the tendrils like reaching, ghostly hands. Flora May shook herself. Ghosts. Vampires. What a lot of nonsense.
A young girl’s dead body found in the cemetery. Mrs. Graham’s grandson gunned down in the hospital. Mrs. Graham herself dead of a heart attack.
Not nonsense. Then what?
Berating herself for being foolish, Flora May strode through the undergrowth toward the cemetery.
As she neared the clearing, she thought she heard the sound of an animal. She stopped, listening. It sounded like a sick or wounded creature.
Flora May veered off the faint trail, following the sound toward the river.
Nearly concealed by vines twined around a large tree, a man lay on the ground, moaning and writhing in the undergrowth.
Flora May ran toward him, stumbling when her foot hit a gopher hole.
She leaned over him.
The twisted face gazing up at her was barely recognizable as the man who had been contentedly fishing on the bank. “The woman I saw that day by the river. Are you real or the apparition of a fevered brain?”
Flora May crouched next to him. “I’m real. Just as real as this animal trap clamped on your leg.” She tried to open it, but she could barely budge the heavy, rusted steel jaws. The man groaned when the teeth sank deeper into his leg.