by Maggie Pill
“Ms. Stilson, but please call me Retta.” I caught his scent, expensive and manly. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mr. Chou.”
“Rick, please.” He smiled like he’d just drawn the card he needed to fill an inside straight.
I heard an irritated huff of air before Barb spoke. “Mr. Chou is hoping we can locate his wife.”
“Ex-wife,” he corrected, still looking at me. “As I told your sisters, Ms. Stilson, my wife left me for greener pastures. At the time, I forget she’s listed as co-owner on property we own just south of here on the lakeshore. Now I’ve decided to sell the place, but she needs to sign off, and I’ve lost contact with her.”
The Lake Huron shoreline south of Allport is dotted with exquisite homes in all styles of architecture from Tudor to ultra-modern. Not only was Mr. Chou movie-star handsome, he was apparently loaded as well.
“Didn’t your divorce decree specify who got what?”
He made a comical grimace. “Apparently that means nothing if her name is still on the deed. It’s just a matter of a signature, but as I said, I have no idea where she is.”
“Will she agree to sign?” Barbara asked.
“The value of the property was taken into consideration in the divorce.” Chou raised a crow-black brow. “She hated the house, said log homes belong in the 1800s. She hated the location, too, said it was always cold with the wind off the lake. She’ll sign.”
A house on Lake Huron was guaranteed a lovely view. The ex-Mrs. Chou sounded like a spoiled brat to me.
“It was an angry parting?” Barbara leaned forward abruptly, causing her chair to make a snapping sound. She examined the poor man as if he were a virus in a laboratory.
“The angriest.” He put up a hand to forestall her next question. “You don’t have to tell me where she is, since she obviously doesn’t want me to know. I just want you to get Candice’s signature—at my expense, of course.” He smiled disarmingly. “You three can take a weekend in the Bahamas and I won’t care, as long as you accomplish that.”
Barbara didn’t warm to his attempt at humor. “We’ll let you know if we think we can help, Mr. Chou. Possibly today, but tomorrow morning at the latest.”
When he stood, I noticed he was the perfect height for dancing, just a couple of inches taller than I am. After shaking hands with all of us, he left, flashing me an extra smile as he closed the outside door.
“What do we think?” Barbara asked.
“He’s great,” I said.
“It’s a case, Retta. We’re talking about a case.”
“Of course. We’re going to look up his ex-wife and ask her to sign off on property she already agreed to give up. Shouldn’t be a problem once you and Faye hit your computers and track her down.” I smiled mischievously. “I’ll be glad to report our findings to the client.”
“Then we’re agreed we’ll take Mr. Chou’s case.” I imagined her rapping a gavel on her desktop to signify the verdict was official.
Faye made a little gesture like she was trying to get the teacher to call on her. “I have a case to consider, too.” Briefly she recounted her meeting with Clara, ending with, “I don’t think it will be a lot of trouble to look into this. If she’s a crazy old lady, we drop it. If the niece—”
“Gail,” I supplied.
“If Gail is pushing for Clara to be declared incompetent just so she can sell the property, we need to stop her.”
Faye spoke mostly to Barbara. A person might look at the agency and see three equals, but in practice, we deferred to our eldest. Faye, Barbara’s biggest cheerleader, never made a move without her approval, and because my full membership in the agency was due to what Barbara Ann called blackmail, I tried to tread lightly.
Though she pondered for some time, I was pretty sure Barbara would say yes. It was obvious Faye wanted to help the old woman out, and Barbara’s soft spot is Faye. “All right,” she said, pulling open the bottom drawer of her desk with a grind of wood against wood. Taking out her purse, she said, “Faye can start the search for Mrs. Chou. I’ll visit Gail Sherman.”
“What are you going to do,” I asked, “suggest she’s trying to cheat her aunt out of her home?”
With that look that says she’s got things all figured out Barbara replied, “Would you rather we take the word of a possibly delusional octogenarian?”
“I guess not,” I admitted, “but if Ms. Sherman is crooked, she isn’t going to tell you the truth.”
“That’s where being an investigator comes in, Retta. You have to ask the right questions.”
Chapter Nine
Barb
The So-Rite Realty office was compact in size and utilitarian in design. As Retta had described, two desks faced each other on opposite sides of the room, but today one was empty. Luckily for me, the occupied chair was Gail Sherman’s. She looked up as I entered and flashed a professional smile, probably because I didn’t look like someone collecting for the local Fireman’s Ball.
Gail wore Power Red, a good color choice with her ash blond hair and green eyes. I cringed at the drawn-on brows, but I try to let other people be who they think they have to be fashion-wise. What irritated me was the assessing look I got, the up-and-down glance that let me know I was being assigned to a shelf in her personal filing system. From the way her eyes went flat, I guessed I was judged a woman of substance but no style.
Nonetheless, she found a hook meant to establish rapport. “I love your coat.” She got up, and for a second I thought she was going to come out from behind the desk and feel the fabric. “Did you get it online?”
I had no memory of where the coat came from. It was rain-resistant, had roomy pockets for the tissues I carry at all times due to allergies, and a hood so I didn’t have to remember to bring along a hat. Ignoring the question, I put out a hand. “I’m Barbara Evans.”
She stood to shake my hand. “Gail Sherman. What can I do for you today?”
“I’ve been asked to investigate Clara Knight’s competence.” I purposely didn’t say who’d initiated the investigation, and she accepted my statement without question. That told me Clara’s mental state had been called into question by formal petition.
“You people work faster than I expected.” Further evidence Gail had expected a visit from the authorities. She sounded happy about it.
I didn’t correct her assumption that I was from the court. “What can you tell me about your aunt’s recent behavior?”
Gail tried for a regretful expression but achieved something more like smugness. “Well, I first noticed it about six weeks ago. I went out to visit, and Aunt Clara was down by the lake. She’d waded in almost to her waist, fully clothed. When I called for her to come back to shore she did, but she insisted one of her chickens was out there drowning. I had a terrible time convincing her the birds were in their pen and perfectly safe.”
She paused for a moment, ostensibly to overcome emotion. “She’s always been so together, you know? The family was so proud of her and everything she accomplished in life, and now to have her lose it—it’s really sad.”
“I assume you had her doctor examine her at that time.”
Now she looked—or tried to look—ashamed. “Well, no. I thought maybe she was just having a bad day, you know? I took her inside and made her a cup of tea, and we sat and talked for a long time. She seemed okay, especially if I let her go on about when I was a kid. We’d go out to visit sometimes, and Clara loves to tell what a scaredy-cat I was about the lake.” Gail shivered. “I can’t help it. When I get close to water I feel like it’s pulling me in and trying to suck the breath out of me.”
Nodding to acknowledge her phobia, I asked, “Was that the only time Clara seemed mentally unstable?”
Brushing some dust off her desktop, she rubbed her hands together. “Oh, no. Every time I went out there, she seemed a little less aware. I started trying to convince her to move into Allport. I told her she could get a little apartment where there’d be people to talk to.” Leani
ng toward me she confided, “She needs to be supervised for her own safety, but I didn’t put it like that.” Gail’s lips tightened. “She insisted she was fine out there.”
So far, Ms. Sherman’s concerns were the concerns of many who feel responsible for an older relative unwilling to admit she’s slipping mentally. At her age, Clara could easily get into a situation she couldn’t get herself out of.
I could almost hear Faye’s voice in my ear. And Clara would rather drown in Sweet Springs than live for weeks, months, or years at the Meadows.
“What will happen to the property if Mrs. Knight remains in the nursing home?”
Gail adjusted the calendar on her desk until it was perfectly aligned with the edges. It took a long time to get it exactly the way she wanted it, and I heard her breathing in the momentary silence. “Since I’m Clara’s last living relative, I assume I’ll be appointed to look after it. I’ll have to assess what’s best for her and everyone else involved.”
Since “everyone else” was apparently Gail, that was a roundabout way of saying she’d do what pleased her. It wasn’t all that nice, but if she became Clara’s guardian, it would be perfectly legal.
I asked a question investigators from the court are supposed to ask. “Do you think Clara is happy at the Meadows?”
A big sigh preceded her answer. “I doubt it. She’s concerned about who’ll watch her chickens, but I’m worried about who’ll watch her.” She raised her palms as if to end any discussion. “I put her somewhere she’s well cared for. What else could I do?”
What else, indeed? My instincts said Gail Sherman was a self-centered woman with no empathy for her elderly aunt, but if Clara was safer at the Meadows than she was at home, society would not fault Gail’s decision.
Chapter Ten
Faye
With the resources we’d developed for our agency on the internet, it wasn’t difficult to find an email address for the former Mrs. Richard Chou. Narrowing the search by middle name, age, and an arrest as a juvenile for Minor in Possession (Yes, the internet does haunt your past), I found the Candice Chou we wanted and got an email address. Hoping it was current, I composed a carefully worded message and created a heading I hoped wouldn’t come across as spam.
“Can’t very well write, Your signature needed, in the subject line,” I told Barb when she returned from her visit to the real estate office.
She chuckled as she hung her coat in the closet under the stairs and closed the door with the thump it took to make it stay that way. “You mean you don’t want to sound like the wife of a prominent-but-deceased African banker willing to share millions of dollars with just the right person?”
“Not if I can help it.” I sent the email. “Should I keep looking until I find a physical address for her?”
Barb shook her head. “Let’s give her a day or two to respond. I don’t want to pry into the woman’s privacy unless we have to.”
“You don’t trust Mr. Chou?”
She shrugged. “I don’t mistrust him, but if Mrs. Chou went to the trouble of hiding her whereabouts from a man she used to be married to, her wishes should be accommodated if possible.”
Barb told me about her visit to the real estate office. As she talked I could tell she was half-convinced Gail Sherman, though not a warm person, had done her best for her delusional aunt.
“I asked a friend at the courthouse to see if Gail has filed papers declaring Clara incompetent,” I said, hoping to delay a decision I dreaded. “She agreed to look into it but said she’s swamped right now. We might not hear from her until Monday.”
“Okay.” Stowing her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk, Barb sat down in her chair with a sigh. “We’ll make a decision about whether to take the case then. Naturally, we won’t charge Mrs. Knight if we decide not to continue.”
That meant I had the weekend to find something to keep Barb’s interest, some hint Clara didn’t deserve to be locked up.
Having done what I could for our current clients, I moved on to my plan to help Clara get some of her chores done. With no need for both of us to stay in the office all day, I told Barb I wanted to take my husband and dog for a ride. Already deep in research on guardianship and conservator duties in Michigan, she wished us well.
Dale was out in the little shop he’d created from Barb’s too-small-for-a-modern-car garage. Like my sisters and me, he grew up in the country, where neighbors help neighbors as a matter of course. It isn’t considered saintly or selfless. It’s simply what people do. When we were kids, if a farmer’s baler broke down, another farmer loaned him his. When a timberman got hurt on the job, people brought food, collected money for medical bills, and took on his chores until he was able to do them again. With that kind of background, Dale would be my willing helper.
Since the accident my husband had limits, but like any proud person, he didn’t like acknowledging them. Stacking Clara’s wood was something he could do, so I figured my mission to help Clara would help him too.
As I explained my proposal, Dale replaced the pull-cord on someone’s snow-blower. “I don’t know if Clara can ever go back home,” I finished, “but if she can, it’ll be hard for her to catch up on the chores before winter hits. I thought we’d do what we can.”
Dale set his wrench in the toolbox with a metallic clunk. “We’ll need work gloves, and I’ll check the weather in case we get rain.”
I often chuckled at Dale’s obsession with weather forecasts. I’d told him a hundred times that rain wasn’t necessarily a reason to hide in the house, but he insisted on knowing if there was the slightest chance we’d get wet on an outing.
Following him into the house, I put on a light flannel, grabbed my car keys, and called, “Want to ride in the car, Buddy?”
A thump indicated my beloved mongrel had jumped down from our bed. Rapid clicks sounded as his nails hit the wood floor of the hallway, and before I could locate my purse, he was waiting by the door. What dog doesn’t know the words ride and car and respond enthusiastically?
Though he would always be a one-person dog, Buddy and Dale had warmed to each other somewhat over time. Dale had stopped calling him the Hound from Hell, and Buddy had given up trying to keep Dale out of our bedroom. He still didn’t like it when he was banished from the front seat, but today he took it with good grace, only growling once at the seating arrangement. As we left the city limits, Bud checked the view from the right, left, and back windows. When he finished he did it all again, making sure he covered all the bases he was allowed.
October’s bright-blue weather was exhibited in all its glory. I believe Michigan Octobers are a gift God gives us to compensate for Novembers, which tend to be gray with gray accents. Hunters love the eleventh month, but for me, October weather all the way through to April would be fine.
Since the air had warmed from crispy to pleasant, I rolled down the back window of my Escape for the last mile as a treat for Bud. Experts say it’s bad for dogs to stick their heads out a car window, so I didn’t do it all the time. Buddy loved it, though, so I gave him a little “air time” when the weather co-operated. It wasn’t like the wind would damage my hairdo.
We arrived at Clara’s shortly after one. I let Buddy out to investigate the smells of the autumn countryside, and he circled the property, sniffing out critters that had been there before him. Dale and I explored the property, gauging what needed to be done. The woodpile was larger than I remembered, but Dale went right to work, lifting several chunks onto his arm. “Good, seasoned stuff,” he said as he hefted it. “At least the wood guy didn’t cheat the old lady.” Taking another piece he urged, “Check on the chickens. You can help with this afterward.”
Buddy followed me to the chicken pen. The rooster eyed me belligerently, but he hadn’t been aggressive last time, so I figured he was simply playing his role. Though the water fount was still half full, the birds had eaten all the food I left and were scratching at the hard-packed ground for bugs. The dog growled when he saw the
m, and the chickens muttered among themselves, their heads bobbing in alarm. I spoke firmly to Buddy, who trotted off to the lakeshore, where some Canada geese were gathered. He worked out his aggression by chasing them off, and the clamor they created seemed to please him.
When I opened the gate of the pen with a bucket of feed in one hand, the birds rushed at me, pushing each other out of the way as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks. Though they weren’t as starved as they appeared to be, the empty trough told the story. No one had fed them since I’d been there two days earlier. Not only had Gail Sherman lied to Retta about having done as her aunt asked, Retta’s visit to the realty hadn’t resulted in action on Gail’s part to remedy the situation.
Dale paused his work on the woodpile to call, “How are things in Chicken World?”
“Better now that they’re fed.” Closing the gate I joined him, glancing around as I went. “This place is as neat as a pin.”
“I noticed,” Dale agreed. “I needed a hatchet to lop off some twigs.” He gestured at the nearest shed. “The tools are outlined on a pegboard so they go right back where they came from.”
“Clara claimed she does everything herself.”
Dale frowned. “You’d think if her mind was going we’d see signs of neglect.”
“I know.” We looked the place over again, searching for signs the owner was failing mentally or physically. Finding none, I became even more determined to argue for taking Clara’s case. Barb was looking at things from her usual, logical point of view, but she hadn’t met Clara. I hoped Retta would take my side.
As Dale went back to work on the woodpile, I remembered the heat lamps Clara mentioned. “Should we put heat in the coop so the chickens don’t get their combs frostbitten at night?”
Pausing the rhythmic clink of setting wood into place, Dale considered. “We’ve got no way to turn it on and off, and we wouldn’t want to start a fire.” He glanced at the bright sky. “I think they’ll be okay without it for a while longer. The coop looks tight, and they can huddle together.”