Deadly Descent

by Charlotte Hinger

  “Phooey. Don’t you believe it. They were both impossible to deal with. Fiona may be a steamroller, but Zelda had her ways of getting even from the time they were little. When she wanted attention, she got it. She was just sneakier than Fiona.”

  The cords in Margaret’s neck tightened. Her voice tensed with disapproval. Surprised by her animosity, I looked away.

  But there was no denying the anguish in Zelda’s diary. What a way for two sisters to carry on. I thought about Josie and me. Despite our little verbal squabbles, she was like a second heartbeat. If anything ever happened to her, I would probably die too.

  Margaret started filing and I turned my attention back to locating my letter writer. A quick call to the City Office eliminated newcomers. No new utility hook-ups for the past three months. No new subscriptions to our paper, either. No strangers reading the Gateway Gazette in the library.

  I listed all the businesses and institutions in the county. Teachers would notice if someone was out-of-whack in the school system, unless my letter writer was a maintenance or lunchroom worker not under daily scrutiny.

  The courthouse grapevine is instantaneous. I would have heard about one of us weeks ago. Bank personnel would nail one another in no time. A dysfunctional person would have a hard time keeping financial transactions straight.

  After I closed my office that evening, I drove to Sunny Rest Manor. Even given the circulation problems of the elderly, I couldn’t imagine anyone being comfortable in the over-heated facility.

  I peeked inside the admissions coordinator’s office. It was empty. Since the home has an open visitation policy, I went straight to the administrator’s office, unannounced.

  Connie Simmons was staring gloomily at a stack of papers when I walked through the door.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Wish you were. Can’t seem to find my start button.”

  “Start? You should be looking for the off switch. It’s about time to head home.”

  “Can’t,” she said flatly. “Surveyors coming this month. Sometimes I think the government invents all this red tape to see if they can break us. And if that isn’t bad enough, we’ve got a flu bug starting. Not too many of the residents down yet, but it’s disastrous when they all get sick.”

  I shuddered, imagining the laundry, the stench, the problems with the staff. I gave a weak wave of my hand and tried to smile.

  “Have you replaced that rogue aide yet?”

  “Sort of,” she said grimly. “I have a body on duty here, but she’s young and inexperienced and thinks she’s too good for the job. She may be right. I don’t know. Not many folks want to change old folks’ diapers.” She laughed at the pleading look on my face.

  “Sorry, Connie. I have the world’s weakest stomach, but I’m getting better. I think. I managed to get through Judy’s murder and do what had to be done without totally disgracing myself.”

  She gave me a quick sharp glance of sympathy and had the good sense to change the subject.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s a business call, actually.”

  “Sheriff or historical?”

  “You know, I’m not sure anymore. The two jobs are starting to overlap. Is anyone on your staff acting funny? Not like herself?”

  “May I ask why you would want to know this?”

  “No,” I said flatly, “you really can’t.”

  “Well, that answers my first question. It’s obviously law enforcement. Not historical.” She reached inside her desk for the roster of employees, riffled the stack of papers, picked up a pen and absently began thumping it against the top of the desk as she tracked down the list with her fingers.

  “We have a high percentage of young, certified nurse’s aides. CNA’s, they’re called. Some boys, but mostly teenage girls who are earning money for college working after school and on weekends. We’re very, very lucky in that respect. The residents adore them. There’s raging hormones and intrigues and the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing. You know, prom dresses and who’s breaking up with whom and whose parents are the most ghastly. But all of them are normal crazy. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Any new hires?”

  “One older woman. Rock solid. I’ve known her all my life.”

  “The rest?”

  She scanned the list again. “Two of the women are widows; we have five divorced or single mothers just trying to make ends meet. The rest are married women. Only three male CNA’s. All these people are fine. Just fine.”

  “Nurses? Any change there?”

  “None.”

  “You’ll watch?”

  “Of course. How can I not?” she asked dryly. “This kind of question does have a tendency to rivet one’s attention on the staff.”

  “I know, and I’m not out to make anyone miserable.”

  She looked at her paperwork, glanced at her watch and rose from her chair.

  I scrambled to my feet. “It’s late, and I haven’t been very considerate of your time. Thanks, Connie. I think I’ll look in on Herman Swenson again just to say hello, then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Okay. Minerva is probably ready to leave by now.”

  “Minerva?”

  “She’s a reader here. Along with Margaret Atchison and Inez Wilson. We have several residents who love to be read to. The three women all come twice a week on different evenings.”

  I could imagine Minerva volunteering for this one-on-one activity. It would be just like her to make this invisible contribution to the community. Margaret Atchison, with her strong sense of responsibility, would find some way to work this in. But Inez Wilson? The queen of commotion? I couldn’t see her sitting still long enough to read a book to anyone.

  Minerva was just coming out of Herman’s room. She stopped in the doorway, leaned against the jamb. She trembled. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her face.

  “Minerva? Are you sick?”

  She tried to smile. Her color was ghastly. “Dizzy,” she said weakly.

  “Connie was just telling me about this flu bug.”

  “I never get it,” she said. “Never.”

  “Well, you seem to be getting it now. You can’t drive home in this shape. Do you need to go to the doctor?”

  “No,” she said. “The clinic is closed for the day, and I would have to see him at the emergency room. I’m not that sick.”

  “You’re chilling, Minerva. Shaking all over. You need to see someone.”

  She clamped her teeth together and shook her head.

  “You shouldn’t drive,” I persisted.

  “All right, I would appreciate a ride home then. If it’s not too much trouble.” She said this stiffly, in the manner of a person who hates to ask for help in any way, shape, or form.

  “Are you kidding? That’s what friends are for. Besides, I owe you, Lady. Think of all the information you’ve dug up for me.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  I was just the right height to serve as a crutch. My shoulders were level with her armpit. She steadied herself and I helped her outside.

  “Is your pickup a stick shift?”

  She nodded.

  “Damn. I’ll have to take you home in my Tahoe.”

  “I’ll need my pickup to drive to work tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think so.” I laughed. Then feeling her tense, I added, “Keith is in town at an Elk’s meeting tonight. I’ll come back here and wait until it’s over. Your stick shift certainly won’t bother him. He can bring your pickup by on his way home, and I’ll follow in his Suburban.”

  “Too much trouble,” she mumbled. “Far too much trouble.”

  “It’s not. Keith’s coming to town tomorrow, anyway. And he can bring me back to my Tahoe.”

  She steadied herself against the front fender. I opened the door and eased her inside. I walked over to her pickup and got her briefcase. The cab was spotless and shiny. She had even Armoralled her floor mats.

  In t
he bed of her Toyota was standard Western Kansas survival equipment that I, too, carried. Blizzards come on with nightmare suddenness. Minerva, however, won the preparedness prize. There was a sleeping bag neatly enclosed in a nylon sack, a camouflage jacket, a Coleman heater, a shovel, a pick, and flares.

  I walked back to my Tahoe and held up the briefcase. “Need anything else?”

  She shook her head. I dropped her keys into my purse. She sat totally motionless, her fingers pressed against her temples, speechless, clearly miserable.

  She lived five miles out of town in a neat little double wide trailer. Once there, I braced her again, helped her up the steps and reached for the doorknob. The house was locked. I fumbled through the ring for the right key.

  Her living room was as impersonal as a mobile home showroom. The walls were paneled with cheap light oak. A small self-assembled desk held a computer with a vinyl cover. There wasn’t a paper out of place. She pointed toward the couch.

  “No way. You’re going straight to bed, where you can sleep comfortably. You might think you’re going to be just fine, but I’ll call tomorrow morning to make sure you have plenty of groceries.”

  “No need,” she said. “I’ll be at work.”

  “Wanna bet? This is going to put you under for at least three days. Count on it.”

  “It can’t. I’ve got too much work.”

  “It will. You’d better call that lady who helps you during tax season and ask her to pitch in.”

  She groaned.

  “Where’re your pajamas? I’ll heat some soup before I leave.” I bustled around, taking over.

  “My head,” she moaned.

  “You probably should have gone straight to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be fine by morning.”

  In her bedroom an oblong mirror reflected a bookcase headboard with a good reading lamp and an assortment of books. I knew she would not appreciate me inspecting the titles. I turned back her crème chenille coverlet and fluffed her pillows.

  One wall was covered with old pictures and yellowed embroidered samplers. An intricate crocheted doily had been placed on a square tall table, beside a small trunk.

  I did not comment on her memorabilia. Others might think this was the real Minerva, but I knew better. Our real self usually is our mask, the face we present to outsiders. Hers was intensely private. If she had wanted me or anyone else to see all this, she would have had it on display in her living room or at her office in the courthouse.

  She swayed as she bent toward her shoes. I quickly knelt, untied her laces for her, and eased her shoes off her feet.

  “Do you need help undressing?”

  “No.” She smiled weakly. “Nightgown on the hook in the bathroom.”

  I got it, handed it to her, then reached for her over-tinted glasses, but she shook her head.

  “I need them to read.”

  “With your headache?”

  “Habit. I don’t think I can sleep without reading a couple of pages. It settles me down.”

  I laughed. “Me, too.” I said. “Bet we could have some grand discussions.”

  “Besides, my head doesn’t ache, I’m just dizzy.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Anything else I can get you before I fix a bite to eat?”

  A tear rolled down her cheek from under her smoky lenses.

  “Minerva, are you in pain? I’ve been calling this the flu without really knowing a thing. I really think you should see a doctor.”

  “I’m so dizzy. I can’t stand not being right in my head.”

  “What you can’t stand, dear, is the thought of not being totally competent and in control.”

  She smiled. “If I’m not better by morning, I’ll call him. I promise.”

  I went into her kitchen and boiled some water for instant soup, made toast, and carried the tray back into her bedroom.

  She had propped herself up on pillows against the headboard. Tears trickled as she looked at the tray.

  “You’ve been very kind to me, Lottie.”

  “Nonsense. This hardly makes me Mother Theresa.”

  “You don’t know. Thank you.”

  “Anything else before I go back to the manor? Keith and I will have your pickup back here in a flash.”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  I turned and headed for the front door.

  “Lottie,” she called suddenly.

  I went back to the bedroom. “There’s something you should know.”

  I waited.

  “You have an enemy.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “A what?” The term was quaint, ancient. Startling in this day and age.

  “An enemy,” she repeated. “You know how I feel about gossip. I do not, will not, pass it on. But you need to know that Christine Julep has been telling people she will have your job. She says, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.”

  “Who is Christine Julep?”

  I was astonished that someone I didn’t even know was determined to take my job from me. Or jobs. I wondered which one she had in mind.

  “She’s the lady you got fired at the nursing home.”

  “The aide?” I said blankly.

  “She says what you did wasn’t right. She’s been talking.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “She doesn’t have any power over me. No one will pay a bit of attention to her, and Connie Simmons will certainly back me. She knows the real story.”

  “Lottie, you’re my friend. You need to understand something, and I don’t think you do. You’re making enemies. Back off. Quit poking around.”

  “Zelda’s murder? You think I should back off of Zelda’s murder?”

  “Zelda’s and Judy’s, and all the other research you’re doing right now. I hear things. People are talking.”

  I looked at her carefully. There were things I wanted, needed to know. For instance, just who, specifically, was so critical of my research and just what research did she have in mind? Were the Hadleys causing trouble again? But there was no point in quizzing Minerva when was sick and upset.

  Her face was white and strained. It could have been her guilt over passing along trouble as much as her flu. I reminded myself that when one is ill, the head is sick too. In fact, if she hadn’t been coming down with something, I doubted she would have made so much of Julep’s ridiculous threat. Things that seem normal and manageable by day loom ominous at night.

  “I’ll think about this, Minerva.”

  I left quietly, called Keith to meet me, and decided to pop in on Herman Swenson while I waited.

  ***

  He sat in the dark, slumped in his wheelchair. Slack-jawed and miserable, tied in with cloth restraints.

  “I think you need a little bit of re-arranging again,” I said brightly.

  I got behind him and pulled him up in the chair. He grunted his thanks.

  “I thought you might be watching the game tonight. Or do you still follow football?”

  His eyes flashed. I looked around the room.

  “Guess it would be a little hard, wouldn’t it? Without a TV. Sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

  Ashamed of having prodded a wound, I sat trying to think of something to say. I was probably the only one here who knew he was once a marvelous athlete. Certainly the only one who knew he enjoyed football. Nursing homes are populated mostly by old women.

  “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” I went to the central activity room. A dozen women were watching a romance movie on the only TV.

  I went back to Herman’s room. Behind him on the panel of lights and switches was a cable hook-up.

  “We have an extra TV at home. It even has a VCR. It belonged to Keith’s dad. I’ll bring it in. No point in just letting it set.”

  The look on that man’s face. It will stay with me until I die. Like I had offered him a cup of water in the desert. I stared at his restraints, longed to cut him free. But I knew restraints were for the protection of patients.

 
Still, I was suddenly depressed. Whether from the sadness of seeing the loneliness of Minerva’s life or this man’s profound misery or my bewilderment at the sheer hostility of the forces gathered against me, I couldn’t say. Tears welled up in my eyes.

  He saw.

  “I don’t know what’s come over me. Mind if I borrow a Kleenex?”

  I blew my nose and sat back down. “There’s folks who think I’m doing things I didn’t do. Worse, I don’t understand any of this. I just don’t understand.”

  If I had wanted compassion, a sympathetic ear, someone who truly understood, I had it. All the sorrow of the world was there in his face. All the empathy I needed.

  “I shouldn’t be burdening you with all this, it’s inexcusable. My troubles are nothing compared to what you’ve been through. I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry. For all that’s happened to you, Mr. Swenson. That you are here. That you lost your wife and your darling boy. That you lost your baby.”

  Tears trickled down his cheeks. I rose, grabbed another Kleenex, and dabbed at them gently. “Just look at us,” I tried to smile. “Aren’t we a sight? Don’t we make a pair?”

  I stroked his withered old cheek, and he tried to kiss the palm of my hand. This gentle old man liked women. Was at home with them. Not a violent person. I knew in my gut, my heart, my brain, that this man would not have committed those terrible murders.

  His face twisted. “Ba…ba…ba…” Puzzled, I strained at the guttural sounds. “Ba…ba…ba…” They were followed by a click, then a gush of air. Shaking, his face reddened. “Ba…ba…ba…” Then the click again. It didn’t make sense. “Oh please,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  He stiffened. “Ba…ba…ba…” Then he made a half circle motion with his hand, his index and ring fingers pressed against his thumb. I looked at him dumbly, tried to understand. He breathed in harsh puffs. I whirled around to call the nurse.

  She came running in, took one look, and asked, “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll get a shot.” She rushed out of the room.