by Lori L. Lake
"Actually, nine right now. Well, eight now that Callie has—passed. Three vacancies. Guess we'll have four when her lease is legally terminated."
"Is that usual?"
"No, not really. We've had a waiting list at times in the past, but the economy's bad. In the last few months, we've had more turnover than usual. Oh, and I should add that one tenant, Norma Osterweiss, is out of town, visiting a daughter in Red Wing." She took a ring-binder out of her right desk drawer and opened it. "We were last full up in February. A couple of people moved out to be nearer to family. Mrs. Levinstein died. Sol Hausmann had the heart attack. A couple of people ceased to meet qualifications and were sent to new facilities."
"What qualifications are you referring to?"
"We're not a nursing home. We're an apartment house in every sense. The focus is on independent living. We provide quality assisted care to help each elderly or disabled person live as comfortably as possible. We're required to provide help with only three of the basic needs that fall into seven specific categories." She listed them off quickly from memory. "Bathing, dressing, grooming, eating, transferring, toileting, and continence care."
"Transferring?"
"Moving people. You know, lifting them when they're not mobile. When you see how small our aides are, you'll understand why we don't do any transferring."
"So you don't do all seven tasks?"
"No, our home focuses on clients with high-level skills. Residents have to be ambulatory and can only live here if they need ordinary help with bathing, dressing, and grooming. We also do food preparation, but they have to feed themselves. They also have to be able to use the bathroom on their own. We have a service for Registered Nurses on call 24/7. The RNs help us assist the patients with keeping track of their medications. Basically, one or more people are on hand here twenty-four hours a day. My aides get to know the residents and treat them like Mom and Dad—or Grandma and Grandpa. We do their laundry, fix delicious meals, go out walking in the garden with them, and so forth. Anything beyond that requires a facility with a lot more staff and services." Hoxley frowned. "But shouldn't you know all this?"
Leo opted for honesty. "I've been involved in many investigations, but not in homes such as this. Thanks for your patience with me. Now let's talk about who works here."
"I've got six aides who cover every minute of the day, 24/7. This complex is never unstaffed. Three aides have overlapping shifts that start at six a.m. and run until ten p.m. From ten at night until morning, I have two aides who take turns working the shift."
"What does the sixth aide do?"
"It's not like that. We have a whole schedule that the six aides cycle through, always with enough coverage to deal with vacations, holidays, and illness. Believe me, I've got them on a nice overlapping schedule because if someone isn't available, I'm the one who gets stuck coming in to cover."
"But someone was here last night?"
"Yes. In fact, I had two aides on duty last night, Sherry Colton and Habibah Okello. That's standard for the dinner hour and for Activity Hour after that. Sherry was to leave at ten, and Habibah was here for the late shift. They're required to stay awake until the last resident shuts out the lights, which is usually by eleven or so. Then they can sleep in the staff bunkroom if they wish. I don't think Habibah slept, though."
"I thought someone had to be awake all night?"
"No, that's the beauty of a smaller facility. The law allows an exemption from the 'awake' requirement when there are twelve or fewer residents. We've got a terrific security-response system for our clients. If they have any problems at all, they ring, and the aide awakens and comes running. We keep a log of every time there's a summons between midnight and six a.m. We have very few incidents."
Rowena Hoxley was in her element now and spoke with pride about her facility, waxing on about the garden, the fine cooking, and the entertainment they often brought in. "A couple of our aides love to sing, and one plays the piano. One or two nights a week we have a sing-along. Sherry led it last night. We have arts and crafts night, too. Anything the residents want to undertake as a hobby, we'll try to help with."
"Besides the six aides, how many others work here?"
Hoxley ticked them off. "Two cooks who generally work half-time each, a housekeeper, and me. We pay a gardening service that also does snow removal in the winter. The eight Rivers' facilities share the services of the nursing consortium, so we have regular visits from the RNs. That's it. Keeps the overhead low and the residents happy."
"Ten staff then." Leo made a note.
"Yes."
"Anyone else on the premises last night?"
"As I was leaving for the day, Callie Trimble's son Ted came in. I didn't see anyone else. It's my understanding that Eleanor Sinclair was out for the evening. Sherry and Habibah said they had seven at dinner and only five at the sing-along. Callie was sleeping, and Walter Green doesn't sing. Habibah told me Walter watched television in the TV room."
"I'll want to talk to the son and any other family that have visited lately."
"I can't think of anyone else who's been in. I'll hunt up the son's contact info."
During the rest of the interview, Leo got the names of all staff and residents. As far as she could tell, she had twelve primary witnesses to interview: the seven residents plus Eleanor Sinclair, the two evening aides, and the cooks. Of secondary importance were the aides not on duty. She also wanted to speak to the owner.
"Where were you last night after the dinner break and up until the police called?"
"Me? You can't think I had anything to do with this."
"I assume the police asked you the same question."
"They did."
"What did you tell them?"
"I was at home. My husband worked late. He walked in the very moment I took the call from Sherry Colton."
"Can anyone verify your whereabouts before he returned?"
"My neighbors may have seen me drive in after work. I don't know, though. I swear to you, I was at home."
"Mrs. Hoxley, is there anyone else you think I should interview? Anyone else who's been around during the last week or so?"
She shook her head. "Can't think of anyone. Nothing unusual has happened lately."
"All right. I'll be here for some time. When I leave, I'll check out with you or one of the aides. Do you—"
The office phone rang, and Hoxley raised a finger.
Leo whispered, "Go ahead." She busied herself with her notes, but when Rowena Hoxley gasped, Leo looked up.
"Crime—crime scene? No…of course not. Yes…I'll be here." She hung up, her eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Lord. Detective Flanagan says Callie Trimble was definitely murdered."
Chapter Four
LEO STUFFED THE tape recorder in her valise and followed Rowena Hoxley out the door. The manager came to an abrupt stop, and Leo nearly bumped into her.
Built into the office wall, outside the door, were twelve numbered mailboxes with tiny locks, and the woman from the garden stood there, a key-ring in her hand and a shocked expression on her face.
"Eleanor?" Hoxley said.
"The mail." Her hands shook and the keys jingled. "The door was—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop. I heard—" She broke into tears and bowed her head.
"Oh, my. This is awful." Hoxley took Eleanor's arm and steered her over to a couch in the lounge area. "I'm so sorry. So terribly sorry."
Leo couldn't hear all Hoxley was saying, but she was doing such a nice job comforting Eleanor Sinclair that the manager went up several points in Leo's estimation. Perhaps she wasn't such an unpleasant person after all.
Leo stepped back into the office and examined the open mailbox slots above the chair where she'd been sitting. Someone must distribute the mail each day, but every box was empty, so it obviously hadn't been done yet. What was the point of having locks on the other side of the mail slots if the manager's office was this open and accessible? Across the hall she noted a pile of circular
s and envelopes stacked on the counter near the front door. Why bother to lock up the mail if anyone could rummage through it out there before it was distributed to the mailboxes?
"Ms. Reese?"
Leo shot out of the office to see Hoxley get to her feet. "I told Eleanor why you're here, and she'd like to speak to you. But the police want me to stand guard at Callie's and Eleanor's apartments. Could the two of you maybe go into the café?"
"Come along, dear," Eleanor said. "This way."
By the time they were seated across from one another at a square table for four, Eleanor seemed more recovered from her shock, but Leo almost didn't have the heart to begin an official interview. Still, she had to do her job, so she got out the tape recorder and explained the same rigmarole she'd been through with Hoxley.
Eleanor listened placidly through the recitation. "I appear to be the police's number one suspect, so I suppose I ought to be careful about what I say. However, I can assure you I didn't kill Callie. She meant more to me than anyone in the world."
"Had you known each other a long time?"
The woman's eyes filled with tears. "Forty-two years. I came to teach at Como Park Senior High in Saint Paul, and she was a cook there."
"And you've kept in touch all these years."
Eleanor's lips twitched, and it took her a few beats to answer. "Yes. We did."
"Did she have any enemies?"
"Not that I'm aware of. Callie has always been—I mean, she was—" She broke off as tears filled her eyes.
Leo waited. She figured that in this job, as in police work, rarely would the interviewees be happy. She wouldn't go so far as to call Eleanor Sinclair's normal human emotions "histrionics" as Fred Baldur had, and she doubted that these would be the first tears she'd see today. "Go on, Mrs. Sinclair."
"Nobody loved to laugh as much as Callie. She was a happy, loving person. Even after her diagnosis, she never let it get in the way."
"Diagnosis?"
"A little over three years ago, Callie was diagnosed with Multi-Infarct Dementia. It's a kind of vascular disease caused by mini-strokes that damaged her brain. We had no idea how long it had been coming on, but she was having major problems with her memory, so I took her to the doctor. They performed a battery of tests, and when they gave the diagnosis, our lives changed overnight. But, you see, though the doctors said she might have severe depression and mood swings, she never has. She cried a lot at first, but after a while she decided to meet life head-on."
"Which meant?"
"We finished out the school year and took off for a summer tour of Europe. I hadn't been overseas since my college days, and Callie had never been at all. We spent ten weeks traveling and had a wonderful time."
"Weren't you afraid she'd have an attack?"
"We didn't let ourselves think of that. The doctors had her on medication to stabilize her vascular pressure, so we went and had a jolly time."
Eleanor's face took on a faraway expression, as though she were remembering happy times, but then she snapped back to attention. "She made it halfway through the next school year, but her memory was too spotty. She couldn't be trusted to cook anymore, so she took a medical retirement and stayed home."
"So you and she lived together for some time?"
"Yes." Eleanor raised her chin in defiance. "For nearly forty years. Ever since her divorce."
It was clear Eleanor Sinclair was being honest at the expense of her own comfort and privacy. Leo wished she could explain that she understood completely and that not only was she in a relationship with a woman, but her foster sister, Kate, and her partner, Susie, had been together eight years and were raising two children.
But now was not the time to discuss that. Instead she said, "You chose separate apartments here."
Eleanor steepled her fingers and pressed them against her lips. She sat like that for a while, and Leo didn't think she was going to answer. When she finally did, her voice was so quiet that Leo had to strain to hear. "I've been a private person my whole life. It's nobody's business what my relationship was with Callie. She was quite a free spirit, so much more uninhibited than I could ever be. We didn't find many elder care places where we could room together. Most of them were full, and the rest were run by people who weren't very open-minded. I—I couldn't—I was unable to broach the subject with the various administrators. I searched for an appropriate place for a long time to no avail. This one seemed the most ideal. With our apartments right across the hall, she could still come to me in the middle of the night, and no one appeared to notice or care. We were starting to settle in."
"You're very courageous to trust me with this now."
Fire leapt into Eleanor Sinclair's eyes, and Leo got the first glimpse of what a formidable teacher she'd probably been.
"This is the way families should be. One of the big problems in our society these days is how people fail one another. We should be there for one another whether we're blood family or 'found' family." She took a ragged breath. "But what's the point now? Nobody can split us any further apart than we are, forever and always. Someone stole her away from me, so who cares? She'll never again rest easy by my side." Tears ran down her cheeks. She sat impassively, letting the grief roll off her like water from a faucet.
Leo let her have a moment then said, "I hope you realize how sorry I am to be putting you through this."
Eleanor brought her handkerchief to her face. She wiped away the tears and dabbed her eyes. "Go on then. What else do you need to know?"
"When did you move here?"
"Mid-June this year. I finished teaching and had to retire. I'd have liked to continue. I loved teaching. But Callie could no longer cook at home, and I'm certainly not good at it. Besides, she was gradually failing, and I knew I wouldn't be able to take care of her properly when the time came. I believed it was better to scale down right away. So you can see why the police will suspect me." She leaned forward and studied Leo for a moment. "That large, loud detective was clearly suspicious of everything I said, but I was unable to explain to him all the reasons why I'd never hurt Callie. You understand, don't you? Please, tell me you understand this?"
"I think I understand better than any straight man possibly could. Everything you've said makes perfect sense."
Eleanor's eyes widened in comprehension. For a moment her face brightened, then she sagged in the chair as though someone had sucked the life out of her. "Thank you."
"I'll do my best to preserve your privacy, though your life with Mrs. Trimble may come out. But it won't be from me unless there's a specific reason relating to the investigation."
"Oh, my God, I can't believe she's gone. Who would do this to her? Who?"
"We have to get to the bottom of it, Mrs. Sinclair."
Leo waited as Eleanor shook her head slowly. Finally, she said, "You should call me Eleanor. Even though everyone has called me Mrs. Sinclair—especially when I was teaching—I was never married."
"All right, then, Eleanor. Will you tell me what happened last night?"
Eleanor outlined her evening, hour by hour. As Leo scribbled notes, it suddenly occurred to her that she was taking notes like a cop, not like a state investigator. What, exactly, was her goal here? She was supposed to figure out if Rivers' Edge Independent Living Apartments were safe to stay open. And how could she make that determination? Fred Baldur hadn't given her any guidance about that at all. If a killer was on the loose it wasn't safe, but how was she supposed to make that judgment unless she determined who had committed the murder? Only then could she be entirely sure the residents were safe.
She hadn't been listening very closely, so she was thankful the tape was running. Just then, the recorder clicked off. "Uh-oh. Let me flip the tape over."
Eleanor pulled a flowered handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan. "I can't believe this is happening. I feel like I've been relegated to a terribly bad dream, Mrs. Reese."
"Now it's my turn to ask you to call me Leona instead of Mrs. Reese.
I've never been married either. All right?" Eleanor nodded, and Leo went on. "Let's talk about the other residents. Did any of them have a problem with Callie?"
"Not at all. People here are mostly friendly." She paused.
"Mostly? Has there been a problem?"
"No, that's not it. It's just that it wasn't easy to move into a new place, that's all. Has anyone told you about Callie? I mean, given you details?"
"Not really. Other than what you've told me, the only fact I know is that she was sixty-nine-years old."
"She was also a big, solid farm girl. You're what—five-eight?"
"Exactly."
"Then you're about her height, but Callie had a lot more meat on her bones. She carried heavy trays and shifted huge oven racks and kneaded bread her whole life. She was strong. Whoever did this to her had to be equally strong. Willie Stepanek lives next door to me, and she's Callie's size, but she's all flab, not much muscle. Besides, she's a delightful woman. She was always patient with Callie and would never hurt her. Agnes, Nettie, and Jade are tiny little slips of things. None of them had the strength to subdue Callie. Habibah told me last night that all the women but Callie were in here at the sing-along. So was Franklin. He's strong enough, too, but I can't believe he'd have hurt her."
"Sing-alongs always go on here in the dining hall?"
"Yes." Eleanor pointed past Leo. "The aides roll the piano out, and somebody plays. Sherry is good, but Norma and Jade also play beautifully."
Leo hadn't noticed the piano over in the corner. She took a moment to examine the room, wondering what else she'd missed. There were six tables, each of which would seat four. Near the kitchen door, a long sideboard with glass-fronted cupboards was filled with table ornaments and other dining necessities. That was it.
Leo checked her list of residents. "So, we've got Agnes Trumpeter, Nettie Volk, Jade Perkins, and Franklin Callaghan. Oh, and Willie Stepanek. That's five, plus you. Someone's missing…"
"Walter Green. And Norma Osterweiss. She's on vacation."
"Good memory."
"Forty-two years of high school students make one a quick study."