Mayhem in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  “Isn’t that dumb? It’s the method they came up with to distribute meds when they put new people on the shift. They’re supposed to match the photos of the residents with the patients so they’ll give the right medicine to the right person.”

  “I guess it works.”

  “Barely. What happens is the residents get all dressed up with special hairdos and makeup to have their photos taken, and they don’t look anything like that by the time they get to this wing.”

  By now Dolores had gotten up and checked the name on the cup of pills. “She’s in the room with the monitor,” she told the orderly, who seemed grateful.

  I picked up the thread of our conversation. “Do you know who these bad people are that your grandmother wanted to get away from? Or if it’s just a fantasy?”

  “No, I don’t have any idea.” Dolores had lowered her eyes, averting mine. When Richard did this, it usually took another three questions to get the truth from him.

  I was convinced Dolores knew who the bad people were, but, for now, I let her off the hook.

  We walked back toward Sofia’s room. Dolores had apparently spent all the vulnerable time she was going to, however. As we approached the doorway and Jen the Cop, Dolores blocked the door, and took the flowers, with a “Thanks, Geraldine. I’ll put these in water.”

  In other words, good-bye.

  I headed back to the main wing with the other bouquet of flowers and two boxes of candy.

  Maybe I could catch Sandy Sechrest at a similarly vulnerable moment.

  Smells from the dining room followed me as I made my way around to the residents’ wing. I couldn’t quite place the aroma, but I would willingly have eaten whatever was the source, since I was starving. It was after one o’clock, a long time since my bowl of cereal. I pictured Beverly and Maddie eating bagels at Willie’s or tasty sandwiches at Sheridan’s and wondered again why I was bothering to follow up on questions I had about the Sofia Muniz case. It was like my reaction to novels, I realized. No matter how bad the writing, I would always finish the book because I couldn’t stand not knowing how things ended—what happened to every character, and why.

  Now I needed to know what had happened to every character in the Mary Todd drama.

  I found Sandy in a quiet corner by a window on the fourth floor. I guessed the residents liked a change of scenery from their own (mostly) small quarters. Sandy was crocheting something soft and pink.

  “For a new baby?” I asked, taking a seat in the small grouping of comfortable chairs.

  She looked up from her work and rolled her eyes, as if to say “who else?” I pulled out the flowers and a box of candy.

  “I want to apologize to you, Sandy,” I said in my most humble voice. “I had no reason to doubt you, yet I was very disrespectful of your observations. I hope you’ll take these little gifts as a gesture of my goodwill.” Sandy continued her needlework in silence. “I understand that you don’t want to talk to me again.” I laid the flowers and candy on the coffee table. I waited another few moments, then stood to go.

  “Is that See’s?” Sandy asked.

  I sat back down. “Is there any other kind of candy?”

  Sandy gave me a slight smile and held up her work in progress. “It’s for my great-granddaughter. They already know they’re having a little girl. Imagine that. She’ll be born April 13. They know that, too. And that will be her name. April.”

  Amazing what a pound of See’s would do. People just opened up. I wondered if Skip knew this trick. “Congratulations to the whole family, Sandy. I’ll bet there will be a great celebration and a scrapbook full of photos on that day.”

  Sandy looked beyond me, her eyes seeming to encompass four generations. “Yes, I have been very blessed.” She paused and gave me a sheepish look. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what I told you that time you were on Sofia’s balcony, and I realize I wasn’t exactly right. No wonder you were suspicious. It wasn’t a shopping bus that Sofia got into. I don’t know what I was thinking. But it was a bus or a van and it did have bars on it.”

  “Sandy, this could be very important in helping Sofia. Could it have been a drawing of a fence that you saw?”

  Sandy’s eyes widened. “That’s it.”

  On the elevator to the lobby I edited the roster of questions I’d come up with last night. It had been a very productive visit to the Mary Todd so far. I could check off yes, Dolores had been with her grandmother in the garden, arguing, on Thursday morning (though I didn’t know the nature of the argument) and yes it was most likely the Field of Dream Fences van that Sofia got into later.

  I still had one box of candy left. I decided to treat Ethel Hudson.

  I never expected it to be so difficult to leave a package for a resident.

  “Never heard of an Ethel Hudson,” said the first woman I approached at reception, a tiny dark-skinned woman (OLARA, I read on her nametag) in Mary Todd whites with an elaborate cornrow hairdo and a large glitter-laden Christmas tree pin on her breast pocket.

  I doubted it had anything to do with suspicions of a bomb or a dose of anthrax. It had more to do with: Who was Ethel Hudson?

  “Maybe she’s at the Nancy Hanks?” I suggested, after spelling the name and pointing out that one of the other residents had mentioned her.

  Olara shook her head, sending a small wave of rich, black braids rippling across her shoulders. “This database has residents of all our Lincoln Point homes. In fact”—she clicked around—“I can check all of northern California.” More clicking, another wave of tight braids. “I’m sorry. No Ethel Hudson. She could be in a smaller facility, an independent, but she’s not in our system.”

  I had one more idea. “Maybe she’s recently deceased?”

  “What is this about?” A new voice heard from. That of Ms. Nadine Hawkes, financial director (or was it manager? Was there a difference?). “Mrs. Porter, isn’t it? The crafts teacher?”

  For the second time, I felt I’d been demoted by her tone, though I certainly wasn’t ashamed of the tag, “crafts teacher.” I had half a mind to name her “records forger” in light of Linda’s suspicion that she bumped Sofia Muniz to the head of the line for a special deal. “Yes, that’s right. I’m looking for Ethel Hudson.”

  “I’ve been trying, Ms. Hawkes, but I can’t find her in any of our northern California facilities,” Olara said.

  “Ms. Phillips, you should know better than to give out information about residents.”

  I’d had the same thought myself, but I wasn’t about to question Olara. Now I worried that I’d gotten her into trouble.

  “I didn’t really give out information—” Olara began.

  “Take your break now, please, Ms. Phillips. I’ll speak to you later.”

  Olara gave me a helpless look and slipped away.

  “I didn’t mean to—” I said.

  “I’ll be sure Mrs. Hudson gets the package,” Ms. Hawkes said.

  “I’d like to see—”

  Ms. Hawkes made a grab for the candy, but I pulled it back and stuck one of my business cards (quite a miracle that my rummaging fingers landed on one so quickly) under the ribbon. “In case she wants to write me a thank-you note,” I said, handing it back.

  I felt her stone-cold gaze and watched her strut down the hallway past the menorah, her tight haircut looking like a military helmet.

  Either Ethel Hudson was in a witness protection program for the elderly, or the fleshy Ms. Hawkes wanted the See’s for herself.

  I still had time for one more stop. Not for lunch, alas, but to drop in at Abe’s Hardware. I was tempted to stop at Sadie’s but I felt a certain commitment to have ice cream only with Maddie while she was visiting. (That would be the same Maddie who probably had talked Beverly into a double sundae today.) I’d managed to find a granola bar in the bottom of my tote, and that satisfied me for the time being. I thought of the sumptuous Victorian banquet waiting for me at the ball and told myself it would be worth the wait.

 
Abe’s Hardware, owned and operated by the Jenningses— Abe and his son, Andy—was one of the longtime family-run businesses on Springfield Boulevard.

  “I got in those tiny hinges you were looking for, Mrs. Porter,” Andy said.

  Like most of my former students, Andy addressed me as he did when I stood at a blackboard and he sat in the fourth row with a worn copy of As You Like It in front of him. Andy had been at Abraham Lincoln High when I first started teaching in the late seventies, so I put his age at about forty-five. His height had stayed the same at about five feet four. A hardware store was a wonderful place for a crafter to browse, so Andy and I had kept in touch over the years though I’d seen less of his fraternal twin, Arnie (it was a family of As).

  “Thanks, I’ll take the hinges and another tube of glue,” I said. I fiddled with some odds and ends in a basket next to the cash register, as if I were a good bet for an impulse buy. In fact, I was stalling and rehearsing. “I actually came to ask you about your nursery and outdoor annex, Andy.”

  “Finally putting in a pool, Mrs. Porter?” Andy asked. He wore the same red jacket with an ace of diamonds on the pocket that I’d seen his father wear. From the way it hung so loose on his narrow, bony shoulders, I thought it might have been the same jacket, literally.

  I shook my head at the pool idea. “Too much trouble. But if I ever do, you know I wouldn’t go anywhere else for my supplies. I have kind of a strange question for you, today, though,” I said, leaning on the counter, closing in on his space. This exacted a similar response from him, as if he were preparing to take a quiz. “About your fencing department.”

  He straightened up. He knew he could pass the test. “Field of Dream Fences. My grandson came up with that name. He’s a clever little kid.”

  “Sure is,” I agreed, sight unseen, imagining another A in the family. Anthony, maybe, or Albert. I resisted asking who came up with the Robert Frost line on the van.

  “Yeah, I can tell you about our fencing,” Andy said, “but I thought that young nephew of yours took care of all your home maintenance.”

  I shuffled my feet, glad at least I knew the man. I couldn’t imagine this conversation going as well with a stranger.

  “I’d just like to see the van for Field of Dream Fences, if I could. I thought I saw a friend driving it the other day and want to be sure.” It had worked with Jason a few short hours ago; why not with Andy?

  “Funny you should ask. You know that van was stolen a couple of days ago? The police just found it way out on Thompson Avenue. You know, where that old glove factory used to be? I got the call yesterday around noon.”

  Aha! “The van has bars, sort of, doesn’t it?”

  “I guess you could call them bars. They’re really tall, narrow pickets.”

  “Of course, and what day did you say it was stolen?”

  “Last I saw it was when I locked up on Wednesday. Come Thursday morning and the thing was gone. I reported it to the police, of course, but I never thought I’d see it again.” Andy picked up a flyer from his counter and fanned his face with it, as if to cool down a blush. “Not that the Lincoln Point Police Department isn’t just great, Mrs. Porter.”

  I gave him a reassuring smile: His comment on police response would be our little secret. My mind had raced ahead with the connection: the van with the bars on it had gone missing just when Sofia was seen being taken off “to jail.”

  A coincidence? I thought not.

  I was so distracted as I left Abe’s Hardware that Andy had to come running after me with the small brown bag of hinges and glue. “You don’t have to worry so much about the van, Mrs. Porter. Really, it doesn’t need a lot of work to get it going again. They didn’t strip it or anything. And remember my brother Arnie owns the body shop now.”

  I patted Andy on his head, still available to me since he remained at least five inches shorter than me. “I’m relieved,” I said.

  My little red Saturn Ion seemed to have a mind of its own, driving south toward the police station instead of north toward home where a dressing table and a lovely Victorian caroling costume awaited me.

  I called my house, where Maddie picked up the phone.

  “Where are you, Grandma?” she asked (demanded).

  “I’m delayed a bit,” I said, passing the deserted stadium of Abraham Lincoln High School. “We still have plenty of time to get ready.”

  “Aunt Bev says you’re probably checking on the decorations, but I think you’re helping Uncle Skip.”

  “Uncle Skip doesn’t need my help.” If only I believed that, I thought, my life would be simpler. “I’ll be home soon, sweetheart.”

  Beverly finally took the phone and assured me there was no problem with timing.

  “In fact, I thought something like this might happen, so I brought all my clothes here. I’m prancing around in one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old underwear.”

  “You’re wearing bones and lace? Aren’t you uncomfortable?” I asked, not surprised at what Beverly would endure for the sake of “dress up.”

  “Yes, but this corset does wonders for my meager bust. Wait till you see my décolletage.”

  “Do you think you can get Maddie as excited about her costume?”

  “We’re getting there. I convinced her that drummer boys took showers very often.”

  “You got her to shower in the middle of the day?”

  “Uh-huh. And I told her they also wore a little makeup. We’re playing with a touch of lip gloss.”

  “I can hardly wait to see.”

  I needed to get Skip to look at the Field of Dream Fences van. The word evidence seemed to flash on and off in neon colors in front of my eyes. Alone in my car, I quizzed myself. What about chain of custody? The van had been abandoned, then taken to a body shop. How could the police be sure what evidence was picked up when? And what would they look for anyway? Sofia had been found without a drop of her own blood on her. Could she have left hairs or fibers behind? That always worked on television. I pictured a crime scene technician plucking a strand of white hair from a carpet on the floor of the van. I was used to dealing with small things. I once crocheted an antimacassar using a single-ply of embroidery thread. I could help.

  As I pulled up in front of the police station, I saw Skip heading across the civic center complex to the city hall, where the ball would be held in a few hours. I drove up as close as I could to the walkway, rolled down my window, and gave my horn a slight tap.

  “Calling all Lincoln Point criminals,” I said when he’d seen me. “Tonight is the night the police department goes dancing.”

  My nephew sauntered over, doubtless aware that I had “business” with him. I could tell by the sideways look he gave me, and then by his comment. “You should be home putting on nineteenth-century lipstick, Aunt Gerry.”

  “Cute. I have just one question.”

  Skip leaned into my window and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Are you my favorite aunt? Absolutely.” He stepped back and waved. “See you later.”

  “Skip,” I said, more loudly than I wanted to, thanks to his maneuvering. “Did you know that the Field of Dream Fences van from Abe’s Hardware was stolen the same night Sofia Muniz went missing?”

  He scratched his head, mussing his thick red hair. “Well, I know it was missing and located the next day. What does that have to do with the old . . . with Señora Muniz? As far as I know the van wasn’t found anywhere near the crime scene.”

  I gave him a quick review of Sandy’s comments and Sofia’s insistence that she’d already been in jail. “What if someone stole that van and used it to abduct Sofia?”

  “To take her to the crime scene and frame her for murder?”

  “Yes.”

  Skip looked over his shoulder at the steady stream of people, many in uniform, exiting the police station and heading for the community center attached to city hall. Some were carrying boxes with fake pine trees sticking out of the top; others pushed and pulled clothes racks, dollies, and luggage on
wheels with decorations for the ball. It was getting close to two o’clock and I could feel Skip’s longing to be rid of me, but he stuck it out a bit longer.

  “How does this play out in your mind, Aunt Gerry? A guy kills Guzman in the Nolin Creek Pines neighborhood, then drives to the hardware store and steals the van. He just picks that van at random, by the way. Then he rushes to the Mary Todd and kidnaps the Muniz woman and takes her to where the body is. Or did he steal the van first, get the old lady, and take her to Nolin Creek Pines before he killed Guzman? Leaving her to sit in the van while he killed Guzman, then spread the vic’s blood over her? Or was it a conspiracy? One to kill Guzman, one to steal the van and kidnap Mrs. Muniz, one to—”

  “Can you at least get someone to look at the van? It’s in Arnie’s auto shop.”

  “I don’t want to know how you know that. I can’t just order a forensics sweep of the van without a convincing reason.”

  “Okay, I get it. I have more work to do.”

  “No, you don’t—”

  But I’d already rolled up my window and put the car in reverse.

  Chapter 14

  Even if I didn’t have all the answers, it would take more than one scrawny (Truthfully? Well built.) young cop to make me give up.

  This time I didn’t resist Sadie’s Ice Cream Shop. I needed fuel and found it in a chocolate malt shake to go. I sat in my car and savored the sweet taste coming through the straw. I drank at least an inch without taking a breath. A few more long sips and I was ready to take off on foot for Video Jeff’s arcade, two doors down from Sadie’s.

  Linda had said this was Gus Boudette’s day to work at the Mary Todd, but he hadn’t shown up. Maybe he had a better offer of time and a half at Jeff’s. It didn’t hurt to check. At least now I was headed north, in the direction of home.

  The light ping of Video Jeff’s door was in stark contrast to the ambience within. The arcade was small, noisy, and dark, except for neon running lights here and there, with many machines crowded in, side by side along the walls and back to back down the middle. It took a minute for my eyes and ears to adjust. I noticed one or two old-fashioned pinball machines and a large nonworking jukebox. The game consoles didn’t look very high-tech, but rather were a throwback to the psychedelic designs of the sixties—fat, graffiti-like lettering and comic book-style clouds and bolts of lightning were scrawled on the sides of the machines—but what did I know about the evolution of pop art?