by Maggie Pill
He seemed to want to say more, but the silence grew long as we waited for the car to return to our floor. When the ding indicated it had, Wozniak stepped back. “I’ll let you get back to it then.” He watched me as the doors closed, his brow furrowed. He was probably concerned I’d disrupt operations at WOZ with my investigation. He could frown all he wanted. I didn’t really care what old Stanley found to worry about.
Chapter Twenty-two
Faye
I tiptoed into Clara’s room, since her roommate was napping. The room smelled of orange cleaner, and the floor was shiny. Clara sat on the bed, reading a mystery novel, but she set it down with no apparent regret when she saw me.
“How are you today, Mrs. Knight?”
“Better, thank you for asking.” She inclined her head toward the visitor’s lounge. “Shall we relocate?”
“Of course.” I followed her down the hall and into the visitors’ lounge. There was no one there, but a jigsaw puzzle was laid out on a side table, the pieces turned up and the frame almost complete. A dice game, decks of cards, and a few board games sat on a low shelf. The ever-present TV flickered in the corner, set on a game show but muted. The lounge was mostly window-dressing since overall, residents were beyond games and such.
Once we were seated in two institutionally bland upholstered chairs, Clara addressed the situation directly. “I was out of my right mind for a while there.”
“Yes.” There was no sense denying it.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand it. I’m clear as a bell and then suddenly things get all mixed up in my head.”
Wanting to offer comfort but aware there might not be any, I asked, “How long have these spells been bothering you?”
“The first one I remember was when Gail found me wandering outside on September 15th. She says it wasn’t the first time, but I don’t recall the others.”
“And since you’ve been here, there have been more.”
She seemed about to cry, and her voice was low. “Yes.”
“And you’ve never had anything like this until recently?”
“No—” She hesitated. “Well, once. When George died, I became depressed, and the doctor I had at the time prescribed one of the tricyclics. It caused me all sorts of trouble, from dry mouth to delirium.” Her jaw worked as she recalled the feeling. “Once I realized it was the medicine, I quit taking it.”
“Did your niece know about this?”
Her eyes met mine as understanding dawned. “Caleb Marsh called her when he became concerned about me. She didn’t come out right away, and by the time she did, I’d figured out what was going on and got myself back to normal.”
“But you told her what you’d taken and how it affected you.”
Clara nodded. “Come to think of it, what I’ve been experiencing lately is very much like what I felt back then.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Retta
Monday turned into a long day. Faye called to update me as soon as she found out about the anti-depression drug Clara had once taken. “If Gail knows that drug makes her aunt loopy,” she concluded, “she might be slipping it to her on the down-low.”
“I wish I’d known that before I had that long, boring lunch with Doc Allen yesterday. I could have asked about the side effects.”
“What she experienced when she initially took the drug is very similar to what’s been happening lately.”
“You think Gail gave Clara this tri-whatever then took her to the doctor with stories of repeated episodes.” As we talked, I applied mascara, blotting the excess away with a tissue. “That and her odd behavior convinced him to put her in the Meadows.”
“And every time Gail visits, she gives her aunt another pill.”
“The resulting confusion, along with Gail’s ‘eyewitness reports,’ convinces everyone the old woman has dementia.”
“Even Clara thinks there’s something wrong with her.”
“How would Gail get her to take the drug without knowing it?”
“Put it in something, her tea, probably.”
Faye considered for a few seconds. “What do we do with this information?”
“It would be best if we had the actual pills.”
“And how are we going to get them?”
My lack of an answer made Faye suspicious, and she sputtered, “Do not break into Gail’s house, Retta. In the first place it’s illegal, and in the second place, Barb would have a fit.”
“How can you even think I’d do that, Faye? We’ll just have to put our thinking caps on and figure out some other way.”
My thinking cap in this case was a cute champagne and burgundy beret I’d bought from Lord & Taylor, which added the perfect touch to my tan North Face jacket. Reassuring my obviously doubting sister as I ended the call, I adjusted the beret to the best angle and took my car keys from the coat pocket. As I closed the door behind me, I imagined Faye shaking her head at what she guessed I was about to do. I made her a silent promise, Don’t worry, Sis. I won’t get caught.
First I drove by So-Rite Realty to make sure Gail Sherman’s car was there. Then I proceeded to her house on a pleasant side street on the south side of town. It had only taken one phone call to a mutual acquaintance and an apparently innocent question to locate Gail’s address.
In small towns many people don’t lock their doors, and even fewer have security systems. The only reason I had one at home was that Don, my now-deceased husband, was a cop who’d seen too many crimes of opportunity. Even so, I don’t use the thing like I should. It’s a hassle that doesn’t seem worth the effort most of the time.
In addition, nobody thinks twice about telling you stuff about their neighbors. When I knocked on Gail’s door, a man raking leaves in the next yard told me she was at the realty office, seldom returned for lunch, and often didn’t get home until dusk. We stood in a cloud of dead-leaf odor as we talked, and he was so willing to share information that I hardly even had to prod.
Thanking him, I got into my car and drove around to the other side of the block. Parking in a driveway where there was a for sale sign, I pretended to be looking the place over, as a potential buyer might. When the leaf-raker went into his garage, I hurried up to Gail’s back door and tried the lock.
Okay, so not everybody in a small town leaves their doors unlocked.
Hearing a leaf-blower start, I moved to the far side of Gail’s house. The place next door seemed deserted, which was good, because Gail’s garage window, a horizontal slider, was unlatched. It was a little high for a petite girl, but I managed to reach it by stepping on the gas meter and boosting myself up. I said a little prayer that the people who lived across the street were away at work as I slid the window open and half-climbed, half-fell inside. My plan was that if I got caught, I’d say Gail had borrowed my lawnmower and I’d come to get it back.
I landed on a shelf cluttered with car stuff, and the noise I made as window scrapers and travel mugs relocated brought another concern to mind. Was there a dog?
Probably not, I decided. A real estate agent is gone night and day. If Gail had a pet, it would be either a cat, which was no cause for concern, or a dog that traveled with her. I hadn’t seen any sign of a dog at the office, and Gail seemed like a cat person to me. While I have nothing against cats, dogs are superior in every way, especially for keeping their owners safe.
There was a cat, a Siamese. I shooed it away from the door as I let myself into the house. The look I got said it was moving because it wanted to, not due to the demands of a mere human.
Gail’s house smelled like the cat, another reason I prefer dogs. The place was furnished for comfort: a huge TV, lots of electronics, and countless examples of shabby chic. I went directly to the bedroom and checked the nightstand drawer. If I had pills that weren’t mine, that’s where I’d keep them.
They weren’t there, so I began a search, going through each cupboard in the kitchen, the cabinets in both baths, and the hall closet. Nothing.
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Standing in the center of the house, I tried to think. Where would they be? I doubted she had them with her. The safest thing would be to take a pill or two to the nursing home at a time, not carry around a medicine bottle with Clara’s name on it.
The glove box of her car? That would be tough for me, since I had no way of getting in there to see.
I was about to give up when something occurred to me. Could Gail’s hiding place be as trite as her underwear drawer? I felt my nose curl at the idea of sifting through some other woman’s undies, but it seemed right.
And it was. As my fingers ruffled through the contents of the back left corner of the third drawer, I first touched a sachet bag—lilac—and then something plastic and round. Pulling it out, I read the name of the prescription recipient on the label: Clara Knight. Taking out my phone, I took several pictures: the pill bottle lying where I’d found it in the drawer, the dresser with the drawer open, and the whole room from the doorway.
It didn’t prove anything—a lawyer would say I’d put the bottle there myself not to mention the whole breaking-and-entering thing—but I was convinced Gail had taken the medicine from Clara’s house. Of course a lawyer could also say she was taking the pills herself, but Barbara, Faye, and I knew that wasn’t true. Somehow, we’d do something about it. At the least we could warn Clara not to take any food or drink her niece brought her from now on.
I might have driven a little over the speed limit to get home. Rick Chou and I were meeting for dinner, and I’d told him I’d drive myself. There’s nothing worse than being stuck for a whole first date with a man who turns out to be a dud—not that I expected Rick to be one of those.
The restaurant was far enough out of town that I didn’t think we’d see anyone who might ask about Lars or mention seeing me to my sisters. It was also far enough away that I’d need extra time to get there, which meant I had to get ready in a hurry. I hate that—it’s much more fun to take my time, try on different outfits, and make sure I look exactly the way I want to. Since I hadn’t planned on an unlawful entry that afternoon, I felt rushed and not quite put together.
Whenever I drive too fast, I say a little prayer that if I get caught, it will be an officer who knew my Don. They’d never give me a ticket because of what I’d done to make cops safer. After my husband’s death I toured the state for two years, pressing for better body armor for officers. I even wrote (well, co-wrote) a book about the tragedy that left me a widow with two teenagers and split the profits 50-50 with the Michigan State Police. The book sold like crazy for a year or two, and while it was a hot item, the state and I both made good money.
I made it home without police notice. When I got out of the car, I could already hear Styx barking to welcome me home. He liked to play this game where he didn’t let me into the house. Standing on the other side of the door, he bumped it closed each time I tried to open it. The game could go on for some time, and I usually enjoyed it, but now I said firmly, “Styx, let me in. I’ve got a date.” Because he was a really smart dog, Styx only closed the door in my face a few more times before he finally backed away so I could come inside.
After a shower with lavender aroma-therapy beads and a little primping, I noticed a message on my phone that read: The highlights of his global tour include encounters with Nelson Mandela, an 800-year-old demigod and a garbage collector.
Barbara Anne. I was supposed to see the horrible consequence of leaving out the Oxford comma: making Nelson Mandela into an ancient half-god and trash man. My return message was succinct. If you put an Oxford comma in there, Mandela doesn’t ride a garbage truck, but he could still be an elderly titan.
I joined Rick at the restaurant only twenty minutes late. I’d texted I was on my way (I waited until the road was clear of traffic to type the message, of course), and he insisted I needn’t apologize. “It was worth the wait.” His appreciative gaze said he meant it.
The restaurant had a pianist most nights, and I heard “Misty” as Rich ordered a bottle of wine. When it arrived, he poured two glasses and offered a toast. “To the future. To us.”
“To the future.”
Just then I saw something over Rick’s shoulder that made me swallow hard. Rory had enterbnked the dining room with Barbara on his arm.
“What is it?” Rick asked.
“My sister.”
“Oh.” He turned to look. “The business-like one.”
When Barbara saw us, her smile turned frosty. She said something to Rory, who also frowned. My sister no doubt disapproved of my dating a client. Rory disliked what he saw as me cheating on his friend Lars.
“Should we invite them to join us?” Rick asked softly.
I gave him a look. “Are you crazy?”
His expression turned knowing. “You’re right. We don’t need company while we’re getting to know each other.”
“Just smile, say hello, and let them sit somewhere else.” I spoke out of the side of my mouth as I rose and opened my arms to hug Rory. “Lovely to see you both,” I told them. “It’s too bad we didn’t know you were coming, or we’d have waited to order.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Barb
“I could not believe it,” I told Faye the next morning. We’d had our breakfast—pancakes and sausage—and Dale had gone outside. I was rinsing the dishes under warm water, something I insisted on, since she was determined to cook for me. “She’s dating a client. And what about Lars?”
Faye wasn’t nearly as shocked as I was. “In the first place, we don’t have a rule against that.” She grinned. “As far as I know, our only rule is that Retta can’t mention changing our name to The Sleuth Sisters ever again. In the second place, I don’t think she and Lars made promises of exclusivity. And third, look at it from her point of view. How many attractive men our age are there in Allport?”
Though she was correct, I wasn’t ready to look at anything from Retta’s point of view. I liked Lars Johannsen. I thought Retta should be able to figure out she shouldn’t date clients without a rule spelling it out. And Chou struck me as a bit too smooth—not criminal, necessarily, but definitely not brother-in-law material.
Chou was handsome, but I doubted he planned to hang around Allport once his property sold. Retta was angry with Lars for spending what she considered too much time with Rory on his trips to Michigan. Even as the old maid in the family, I knew enough about men to know they need time with male friends once in a while. I hated to see Retta throw away what she had with Lars, which I thought was good, for a man who’d be gone from Allport soon, probably forever.
Retta often claims she doesn’t tell people what they should do, but of course she does. I really don’t tell others what to do, but I confess I sometimes have strong opinions.
The least likely of us to judge another’s actions, Faye dropped the subject of Retta’s date. “I haven’t had time to catch you up, but Clara told me yesterday she once experienced delirium while taking an anti-depressant. Retta and I think Gail might have used that same medicine to cause her aunt’s ‘spells’ and convince people her mental competence is deteriorating.”
“Where would she get the same drug Clara took?”
“The easiest way would have been to steal it. People often don’t dispose of medications they’ve stopped taking. Prescriptions can sit on a shelf in their bathroom for years.”
Remembering my own medicine cabinet, where there were at least two prescription bottles half full of allergy pills I’d probably never take because they made me sleepy, I nodded. “How do we deal with that?”
“I called the pharmacist at Baskins’ and asked about the effects of tricyclics. She said they can be dangerous, especially for older people. They can easily overdose and die.”
A thump sounded as a door closed somewhere at the back of the house. “At least Clara’s aware of it now. If Gail brings her something to eat or drink, she’ll refuse it.”
“And if that leads to no more episodes of confusion, it will be a big
step forward for Clara. She might get to go home after all.”
I doubted that. Since Caleb Marsh was dead, Clara had no neighbors. It was doubtful her doctor would release her from the Meadows unless she agreed to get a place in town, possibly in the senior center. I decided I’d suggest that to Faye so she could pass it on to Clara if things got to the point that her competence was re-established.
My computer had booted, and I checked our email. “Mrs. Chou has replied.” Quickly scanning the note I reported, “The email account we contacted her on is mostly unused these days, but she checks it occasionally. She’d forgotten all about her name being on the deed to the house.”
“Sounds like she might be co-operative.”
“She’s cautious, though. So her ex won’t find out where she is, she doesn’t want to reveal her present location.”
“It won’t be hard to find her now that we know we’ve got the right Candice Chou.”
“I don’t want you to do that.” When Faye looked up in surprise I went on, “Do you have any idea how many women I met as an attorney who were terrified of their husbands, ex-husbands, or ex-boyfriends? Candice Chou put a lot of effort into getting away from that man. I don’t want her to get the impression we’re on his side.”
Faye nodded. “I see what you mean.”
She did, but only as much as a person who hasn’t dealt with years of battered, terrorized, and murdered women can. As a prosecutor I’d had more than my share of such cases, and I’d never gotten over the horror of it. If Candice Chou felt the need to keep her whereabouts from her ex, I was willing to do whatever she asked, even if it meant giving up the case. The problem was that if we refused to help Chou, he’d simply hire some other agency to track Candice down, one that might not be as tuned in to keeping the secrets she wanted kept.
Pulling the keyboard shelf out, I said, “I’ll tell her we’ll make every effort to make signing the documents completely secure.”
My typing was interrupted by the sound of Buddy’s frustration, and I guessed he’d shut himself in the back entryway again. The dog insists on closing the door while he eats, but once he’s finished his meal, he becomes furious when he can’t get back into the kitchen.