by Lori L. Lake
Through the sliding glass door she caught sight of a swirl of motion in the twilight, a sense of a presence slipping out of her range of vision. Was someone there? She peeked around the corner into the night, but by the time her eyes adjusted, whatever or whoever it was had gone. She shut and locked the slider and went to the foot of the bed. "Rise and shine, old girl. You're napping in the wrong room again."
When Callie didn't move, Eleanor stepped around the side and leaned a hip against the mattress. Callie's steel-gray hair was mussed, and she lay in an awkward position with her right arm beneath her torso.
"Wake up. Your arm's probably fallen asleep." Eleanor leaned over and patted Callie between her shoulder blades, in the middle of the wild orange and yellow housedress. Callie had been a light sleeper all her life. She should have popped awake. Goosebumps rose on Eleanor's arms.
"Callie?" Eleanor reached across the sleeping woman and tugged at her shoulder. "Callie, are you all right?" Once she turned Callie on her side, the body rolled toward her, limp and lifeless.
"Oh, no, no, no…" Under Eleanor's probing hands, Callie's arm and neck were warm, but her body seemed slack, like a rubber doll with loose joints. "Callie! You can't be—you can't!"
She felt a stab of pain behind her breastbone so sharp it took her breath away. The ache flowered, and for a moment she thought she was having a heart attack. As the pain ebbed, she dropped Callie's hand and staggered back. "Oh, God, no." She rushed into the bathroom and pulled the emergency panic cord so hard that she ripped it out of the wall.
PEOPLE CAME. PEOPLE went. A hall full of paramedics and staff and police milled about, but Eleanor paid them no mind. She sat in the easy chair across the way in Callie's room, hunched under a multicolored afghan Callie had crocheted many years before.
She didn't cry. She couldn't even think. She'd rocketed from shock to numbness in so short a time that she found it impossible to focus on anything. When Sherry, the aide, handed her a hot mug of coffee laced with milk and sugar, she accepted it and sipped away, unaware of the actual flavor.
Why now, she kept thinking. Why now? Callie was having good days. She was happy here.
A Minneapolis police officer came and identified himself. His name didn't register. She forced herself to concentrate. His dark, ebony face reminded her of a boy she'd taught many years before.
"Mrs. Sinclair? You probably don't remember me."
"Axley."
"Excuse me?"
Her tongue felt thick, and she struggled to get words out. "You used to say 'axley' instead of actually."
He looked at her blankly for a moment. "Ah, so you do remember me."
"I'm sorry I don't recall your name, young man, but you're definitely familiar."
"Jasper Caldwell."
"Yes. You wrote a paper once about elephants. You made puns about their trunks and big ears and about how they never forget. I didn't know you'd joined the police. Always thought you'd be a veterinarian. Or a zookeeper. Never saw a boy so wild about animals." She realized she was babbling and closed her mouth.
"Yes, ma'am." He shifted uncomfortably and tugged at the sleeve of his blue uniform shirt. "I'd forgotten about that paper. Long time ago. I graduated Class of '88 and never put my elephant knowledge to work. Mind if I sit?"
"Be my guest."
He settled across from her and opened a ring-bound memo book. "The manager here will have more information about Mrs. Trimble's situation, but she's not here right now, so the aides said I should talk to you. You're her next of kin?"
"Yes, I am, legally. Her ex-husband lives nearby. And a son and daughter, too. Well, the daughter's in the Peace Corps. Howard Trimble. That's her husband—her ex. Over in Saint Paul. He's in the phone book." She shut her mouth, aghast at her inability to speak in her normal coherent style.
He made a note. "All right then. The aide said you were off somewhere, out to dinner?"
"Yes." She described her activities up to the point of returning to Rivers' Edge.
"Did you get picked up or drive or take the bus?"
"I drove myself."
"Okay, what happened when you arrived home?"
"I came in here, and—"
"Wait a moment, ma'am. Back up to the parking lot. Close your eyes and imagine yourself parking your car."
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. "I picked up my shoulder bag and stepped out of the Buick. I locked it from the inside, shut the door, and went to the front door of the apartment."
"Was it locked?"
"Yes. I used my key, and I definitely closed it behind me."
"Go on."
She took him through her next steps, and when she got to the sliding glass door, he asked, "Did you notice anyone outside?"
Eleanor opened her eyes. "Not exactly. I saw...something. Movement. But no one was out in the garden when I looked."
"Then what?"
"I closed and locked the door, and then—then I found Callie. Like that."
"You moved her."
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize she'd passed, Officer. She was facedown on the bed. I thought she was sleeping."
"Did you notice anything strange?"
"Strange? In what way?"
"Anything unusual. An intuition, something that puzzled you? Anything that was off in any way?"
She closed her eyes once more and envisioned the orange and yellow housedress and the way Callie had rested, one arm underneath her midsection. She didn't like that picture in her mind, so she shook herself and met the cop's gaze. "Callie was always a side sleeper. She must have had an attack and fallen onto the bed."
But that didn't seem right either. She'd found Callie with her head near the middle of the bed. She would have been closer to the side if she'd had a stroke or heart attack while standing, and if she'd been lying down, would she have rolled onto her stomach like that? Maybe she crawled that far and then collapsed. "All of this is so unusual. So unexpected."
"I understand," he said. "What time did you last see her alive?"
"I'd say about half past five." When he frowned, she said, "You can verify it with Sherry. Or Habibah. I saw them both on the way out."
"What was Mrs. Trimble doing?"
"Visiting with her son, Ted. Howard's son."
"Trimble his last name?" When she nodded, he asked, "You know where he lives?"
"Off Snelling by Macalester College. I don't know the address off the top of my head. It's in Callie's address book."
"All right then."
He paused for a full minute to make notes. Eleanor thought of the little red address book that Callie had carried for years. In her mind's eye, she visualized how it was filled with Callie's looping handwriting, a script that Eleanor would never see her write again. The realization pressed down on her chest like a heavy weight, and tears welled up.
Officer Caldwell went on. "And you arrived home when?"
"A few minutes after eight o'clock."
"This library book group—do you regularly attend it?"
"Fourth Monday every month. I haven't missed in ages."
"Which branch?"
She gave him the address. He made more notes and went over some of the same questions he'd already asked until she began to feel impatient.
"You saw no one when you entered her apartment?"
"You've asked that already. That's my apartment. This is her apartment." In answer to his quizzical look, she said, "Callie was in the mid-stages of a form of senile dementia. She wandered freely, napping here, there, everywhere. Sometimes I'd find her in the TV room asleep on the couch or in the big recliner. Other times she'd get disoriented and wind up in one of the other residents' rooms. Most people in this complex keep their doors open during the day. I've got everything of value locked away because people are known to wander off with this or that."
"Theft, you mean?"
"Oh, no. Last week Norma Osterweiss came in here, unplugged the lamp by Callie's chair, and took it out to the café where she lined
it up with several other lamps she'd liberated from their owners. She didn't remember doing it. Callie went into Mrs. Stepanek's room the other day and lifted an entire vase of pretty flowers and put them over there on her television set. This goes on day in and day out. Nobody gets too upset, and the aides are good about returning things. Those of us who care lock our doors, or we make sure we don't leave anything out that's valuable."
"I see. So you went into the other apartment immediately upon arriving home, shut the slider, and then?"
"I found her right away."
"Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair." He stood and tucked the memo pad into his uniform shirt pocket. "Someone will be in touch."
Eleanor rose. "What's going on, Jasper? Why all the probing questions?"
"This is the normal routine." He gripped her hand in his warm mitt. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sinclair."
His physical warmth made her realize how chilled to the bone she felt, and a bout of dizziness passed over her.
"Whoa, whoa." He maneuvered her into the easy chair and lowered himself to one knee. "I better call someone for you."
"I'll be all right. It's just such a terrible shock."
"Yes, ma'am, it is." He reached behind her, pulled up the afghan, and helped wrap it around her shoulders. He got to his feet and smiled sheepishly, as if embarrassed by his own gentleness. "You weren't too bad as a teacher, Mrs. Sinclair. Never mean like some of the others."
"That's nice of you to say, Jasper."
Chapter Three
THE DEPARTMENT OF Human Services building was nothing special. Leo followed Fred Baldur through the typical maze of cubicles filled with tired-looking bureaucrats. After clearing security, he took her through a side door that bypassed the reception area and brought them to a wide hallway by the elevators, which seemed to take forever to come.
If she remembered correctly from her Old Norse mythology, Baldur was the name of a prince. Or perhaps it translated as "king"? She couldn't remember, but she was certain that Fred Baldur could in no way bill himself as royalty.
He was a pale-skinned man dressed in a wrinkled light-gray suit, no tie, and scuffed black oxfords. Perhaps it was lucky his hair was thinning because his skull hadn't been acquainted with a hairbrush for many moons. He had such a flattened patch of bed-head over his left ear that Leo was sure he must be a side sleeper.
She'd worn a comfortable blue suit that had been around the block a few times, a button-up white blouse, and a pair of plain oxford shoes. As far as she could tell, she was overdressed for the department.
Baldur pressed the elevator button and said, "Stay away from the front desk as much as possible. We've had a long string of temp receptionists, and you'll be pressed into service if you go near them. Let the office manager handle their questions and catastrophes, or you'll never get out of here for a cup of coffee much less be allowed to drink it."
She was surprised they were taking a break so early. She'd arrived at eight a.m. sharp, met with the director, Ralph Sorenson, for approximately ten minutes, and been sent out into the sea of cubicles to find her trainer, Fred Baldur. He'd droned on for all of half an hour, going over general information about the Department of Human Services and the Investigative Division. The important information she'd learned was brief: The State of Minnesota licensed all youth treatment centers, nursing homes, detox services, rehab centers, adult foster care programs, homeless shelters, assisted living complexes, adolescent group homes, child care centers, and day programs for elderly and disabled. Complaints came to DHS regularly and could be lodged by a client, a worker, or a relative of someone involved. DHS was required to respond. All deaths and matters of serious injury were always fully investigated. If the provider of services was guilty of negligence or dangerous practices, DHS had the authority to cite the provider, suspend staff, recommend fines, or pull licenses and shut down the business.
That was the extent of her training, and now it wasn't even nine o'clock, and they were setting out for a break.
The elevator opened, and Baldur stepped aside to usher her in. She estimated he was near retirement age. He stood with a stoop, as though Atlas had skipped town and left him holding the entire weight of the heavens on the back of his neck. As the doors clunked shut, she asked, "Why is the department so understaffed?"
He shook his head like Eeyore from the Winnie the Pooh cartoons. His voice came out sounding like Eeyore's, too. "One gal's on maternity leave. Another one had twins, so she's on extended maternity leave. And the other member of the team fell off a roof and cracked some vertebrae weekend before last, so he's gone now, too. Brad might not be able to work for months. That leaves me. Wish I could get a leave like the others, but to tell the truth, I don't like the pain involved."
Baldur steered her away from the building's front doors to the entrance for a restaurant called Piccadilly Point. The décor was shabby, traditional English pub with three old-fashioned recessed "snugs" for private meetings tucked along one wall. Dark-stained wood paneling covered the walls, most of which were decorated with old-time sepia photos and dart boards. The room was so dim that Leo squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust, and she didn't get close enough to determine what the framed pictures depicted before Baldur led her to one of the snugs. She slid into a clunky tavern chair, which was surprisingly comfortable. The tables were made of scarred wood planks with old-fashioned wood pegs as fasteners. The carpet was threadbare, but the overall atmosphere was of cozy gentility.
A waiter appeared. "Hi, Fred. The usual?"
"Please."
"And you, ma'am?"
"Black tea. With milk and sugar, please." If Piccadilly Point served English fare, she hoped they'd have decent tea. "May I see a menu?"
"We're not serving anything except muffins and bagels until eleven."
"That's fine, but I've never been in here before, and I'll likely have lunch here fairly often, so I wanted to get an idea of your entrees."
He whisked a menu over to her, and she took a moment to scan it. They served traditional English favorites such as Shepherd's Pie and Fish and Chips along with other typical selections: steaks, burgers, spit-roasted pork and chicken, and soups.
"Is the food good here, Mr. Baldur?"
"I suppose. I stick with the coffee and gin for the most part. Not together. Oh, and not on work time, either. Please call me Fred." His eyes squinched up with his attempt to grin, but his lips only curled up slightly at the corners. She got the impression that it hurt him to smile.
The waiter delivered a giant mug to Fred that could easily hold two cups of coffee. Her teacup was dainty, and the tea was served loose-leaf in a china pot covered with a fluffy red and gold tea cozy. The waiter set down a sugar bowl, milk, and slices of lemon, and asked if they needed anything else. Fred sent him away.
"I come down here every morning," Fred said. "Used to be able to sit here and have a nice private smoke. Damn do-gooders ruined that. Lawmakers have no backbone these days. They just listen to the rabble. Plenty of restaurants are no-smoking, so why couldn't they leave mine alone? You smoke?"
"No."
"Probably for the better. Guys I know are dropping like flies. Cirrhosis. Lung cancer. Emphysema. I'm fifty-four years old. Sure don't want cancer. Guess I ought to quit drinking, too. But this place does have some nice English Gins. Scotch, too. You drink?"
"Socially. Otherwise, not so much. It's an expensive treat in my book."
"True. Very true." He took a slurp from the big mug and sat with his hands cupped around its heat. The wrinkles in his face slid as though the skin were dripping down into his jowls. Dark bags under his eyes made his brown eyes look even darker. Leo had a hard time believing he was only fifty-four.
"I wanted to get away from the office to make some—ah, arrangements with you, Ms. Reese."
"Leona is fine."
"All right, then, Leona. You see, I'm not cut out for field work. To be honest, I can't stand the histrionics." He paused, shaking his head.
&nb
sp; "Histrionics?"
"Everywhere you go, they're all slightly hysterical. Complainants, witnesses, managers, owners, the damn relatives. They've all got an ax to grind. I can't take it. I prefer to coordinate. Brad and I had it going pretty well. He did the field work, and I took the phone calls and completed the paperwork. I figure what with you being a cop and all—I mean, a police officer—you might want to run the show like Brad and I did."
"To be honest, Fred, I don't know that I'll be here too terribly long."
"What? I was told three months guaranteed."
"Yes. Well. We'll see."
She figured the tea had steeped long enough, so she busied herself preparing her cup. When she looked up, he was staring at her with such a sad-sack expression on his face that she had to stifle a giggle. "I'm fine with the street work. Field work is my forte, but I'm pretty good at paperwork, too."
"The red tape is miserable. But less so than interviewing. I'd be indebted to you if you'd agree to split the tasks like Brad and I did."
"Okay."
His face broke out in a smile for the first time, and Leo was taken aback. His teeth were yellowed. She could actually see ingrained tan streaks. Dull stains gave his grinning face a hyena-like appearance.
He jerked as though stung and lost his smile. One knee came up and jounced the table. Her tea slopped over the side of the cup, and she let out a little gasp.
He fumbled in his pants pocket and dragged out one of the smallest cell phones she had ever seen.
"I hate technology. Forgot I had it on vibrate," he said as he flipped it open. "Yeah? No kidding? You can't be serious? I'll take care of it."
He snapped the phone shut. "Drink up, Leona. Here's where you're going to have to keep up your end of the bargain."
What a strange and cryptic man, she thought. What the hell is he talking about?
"There was a suspicious death last night at an elder apartment complex in Minneapolis. It will have to be investigated now."
"What's the protocol? Do we liaise with the police or what?"
"Liaise? Is that a word? They do their job, we do ours and hope they stay the hell out of our way. We try to get information out of them wherever we can. Brad was very good at it. He got excellent cooperation from the various law-enforcement units. You'll want to do the same. Luckily you have the Saint Paul PD in your pocket. Use your badge anytime it greases the skids. If it helps, I mean." He took a giant swig of his coffee, smacked the mug down on the table, and rose. "We better get back to the office so I can load you up with the things you'll need."