A Trouble of Fools

by Linda Barnes

  All I could think of was Aunt Bea, and the way her hand gripped mine in that awful hospital room just before she died. I heard a voice whispering in the still room, and it was mine, begging Margaret to hang on, hang on.

  If Eugene Devens was responsible for this, I would find him. I would find him all right.

  Chapter 8

  Room 501 South, Boston City Hospital. In spite of the fresh white paint and the red and blue poppy-splattered curtains, I’ve seen prison cells a whole lot cheerier. It was a double room, the size of a large closet. Sliding curtains were ominously closed around the bed of the occupant who’d arrived first and copped the window view of the trash dumpster.

  Margaret’s eyes were closed, too, one of them swollen shut, purpling nicely. Breath rasped through her nostrils. An IV bag dripped colorless fluid through a thin tube connected to the veins in her left hand by needles and tape. The elevated hospital bed dwarfed her. White lab coats surrounded her. All that white, all that machinery—the combination made my stomach quake.

  A broken collarbone, abrasions, contusions, probably a concussion. An impossibly young and cheerful doctor said she was lucky she hadn’t broken a hip.

  Hospitals and prisons both make me sweat. Maybe it’s the smell. More likely, it’s something about places that hold you against your will.

  At least prisons don’t have doctors who tell you how lucky you are.

  Margaret had briefly regained consciousness in the ambulance. In a shaky voice, she’d informed the EMT that she had a mess to clear up at home, and he could just stop at the corner and she’d be on her way, thank you very much. And all the time, you could see she was hurting like hell, barely able to squeeze the words out of her swollen mouth. I hope I’ve got half that much spunk when I’m her age.

  I waited in a dismal antiseptic-smelling hallway while two cops I didn’t know tried to question her. A pimply blond teenager in hospital greens slid one of those heavy buffing machines in lazy arcs across the linoleum floor. Over the hum, I could hear the cops’ voices. I couldn’t hear Margaret. Every once in a while a loudspeaker would cough out a doctor’s name or a room number, “Code Red” or “Code Blue,” and a sudden rush of white uniforms and scuffling feet would follow. Otherwise it was just the floor-buffer man and me. We exchanged brief smiles.

  When the cops came out, I introduced myself. One of them knew Mooney.

  “He sends his best,” the guy said. He was long and lean and wore the uniform well. “Too busy to take the squeal himself.”

  “Yeah,” echoed the second cop. He was older, short and potbellied, with a jutting chin. Didn’t do a thing for the uniform.

  I nodded toward Margaret’s door. “She tell you anything?”

  “Too woozy,” the fat cop said immediately, with a warning glance at his partner. He wasn’t the type to give information to mere civilians.

  “Said she fell downstairs,” the lean cop said softly.

  A hefty blond nurse breezed into 501 carrying a tray with a glass of chipped ice and a straw. I excused myself and followed.

  The closer I got, the worse she looked, and believe me, the view from the doorway window had been bad enough. From two feet away, her skin, the part of her skin that wasn’t bandaged, or raw and red, or purple from the bruises, was gray. The bandage across her forehead was neat enough, but a brownish stain was seeping through on the left side. All the tubes and drains made her look like some helpless old marionette, controlled by the huge mechanical bed and the display of instruments on the wall behind her head.

  The nurse addressed her as if she were awake. I wasn’t sure, but I figured the nurse ought to know.

  “I hope those policemen didn’t upset you,” she said briskly, smoothing an offending wrinkle out of the top sheet. “They have to ask their questions, I suppose.” She glanced at her wristwatch, then at me. “I’m sure your, uh, granddaughter can help you with the ice water.”

  I nodded obediently, and tried to look young and earnest. The beating had added years to Margaret’s appearance.

  The tray also held a syringe. The nurse uncapped the needle, lifted it to the light, checked something scrawled on the chart at the end of the bed.

  “What’s that?” Margaret was awake after all.

  “It’s for the pain.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “You’ll feel a little pinch, Miss Devens, that’s all.”

  “I don’t—” She tried to turn away, but didn’t have the strength to resist.

  “There,” the nurse said calmly, removing the syringe from the vicinity of Margaret’s hip. “The medication will take effect soon, so don’t worry if you start feeling drowsy. Maybe your granddaughter will stay with you till you fall asleep.”

  I beamed her a sincere, appreciative, family-member smile. The cops got a grudging three minutes. I’d just been granted unlimited bedside time, albeit with a drugged client. Sometimes there’s a benefit to not looking like your typical cop.

  “She’ll feel much better tomorrow, dear,” the nurse promised me as she left.

  I maneuvered a chair close to the head of the bed, sat down, and waited.

  “Go away,” Margaret whispered. I hadn’t seen her open her eyes since the nurse left, but she’d turned her head in my direction, so I guess she must have peeked.

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  She said nothing and kept her eyes shut.

  “Did you know him? Them?”

  Again nothing.

  “Was it Gene? Did your brother do this to you?”

  That forced her good eye open. “No.”

  “Then why are you trying to cover it up?”

  Silence. The eye closed.

  “Margaret, listen to me, I’m not a cop. I’m on your side. You paid me. Maybe I can help. You didn’t fall downstairs. A tornado did not strike your house.”

  No response.

  “Did they get what they wanted?”

  “No.” The single syllable came out with grim satisfaction. She repeated it and her voice cracked.

  “Water?”

  I held the glass while she made an attempt to suck at the straw through swollen lips. She winced at the feel of it, and waved the glass away.

  “Listen.” Her voice was so faint I had to lean over the bed. She grasped my hand, which was chilled from the icy glass. Hers was colder. “Find Gene. Please.”

  “I’m looking. I’ll keep looking.”

  “If I die—”

  “You’re not dying, Margaret. The doctor—”

  “Doctors.” She practically spat the word. “Eugene … If I die, there’s nobody else.”

  I thought she’d dozed off, but when I tried to release my hand, she drew me closer with surprising strength. “Hide it,” she whispered. “Hide it for me. Don’t tell.”

  Whatever they’d given her, Demerol, morphine, was starting to take hold. Her one open eye was wide and vacant, staring at the ceiling. I’m not sure she knew I was there.

  “Hide what?” I said.

  She gazed at me blankly, as if she’d never seen me before in her life.

  “Hide what?” I repeated.

  “Go … home,” she murmured. Each word was separate, disjointed, like the beginning of a new thought. “Home … attic … toy trunk.”

  “A toy trunk in the attic?”

  She stared at me intently, pleading out of that one wandering eye. “Home … behind … trunk … attic…” She talked the way a drunk walked, trying to toe a straight line, wavering uncontrollably. She couldn’t manage to get the right words out, only the urgency. “Home … hide the … hide it. Gene…”

  “Margaret, what does Gene have to do with it? Did you see Gene?”

  She gave up, sighed deeply, closed her eye, and slept.

  I sat with her a little while. The IV dripped. The second hand of the big clock described steady circles. Her breathing grew soft and even, her hand warmer.

  Before I left, I tucked her hand underneath the thin blanket,
and smoothed a strand of white hair off her forehead. Like I said, I never met my grandmother.

  Chapter 9

  I stopped at a deli on the VFW Parkway and ordered a pastrami on light rye, two half-sour pickles, and a can of Dr. Brown’s cream soda. That’s the kind of food I was raised on, and while Boston’s delis can’t compare with the Detroit of my childhood, I find them soothing in stressful times.

  I gobbled a huge wedge of strawberry cheesecake for dessert. If it weren’t for volleyball and a speedy metabolism, I swear I’d be as fat as Gloria.

  By the time I’d patted up the last crumbs with my fingertip it was after three, which meant Paolina would be home from school. The deli has one of those minibooths Ma Bell has installed now that Superman no longer needs a place to change. I punched the buttons. Sometimes I even miss dial phones.

  “Allo?” She answers the phone the way her mom does: “Allo?” instead of “Hello?” At school and with me, she speaks good old American slang. Except every once in a while, she starts a phrase with that multisyllabic “Nooooo!” which identifies a Colombiano every time.

  “¿Como esta usted?” I replied.

  “Carlotta!” she said immediately. “Hi!”

  My high school Spanish is good for one thing. It gets a guaranteed giggle out of Paolina, who says I have an accent like a Venezuelan peasant’s parrot.

  You could tell she was glad to hear from me. When I was a cop I guess I never really got used to the fact that pimps and hookers were not pleased when I showed up. Even now, folks are not always delighted to invite a PI into their parlor. Paolina is my antidote, my official welcoming committee.

  “How’re ya’ doin’, Carlotta?” Sometimes she gets deliberately slangy to show off.

  “You take your history exam?”

  “You remember everything.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I got eighty-eight. But I think she’s going to grade on a curve, so maybe I got an A.”

  “You study?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You panic?”

  “Right at the beginning, when Miss Vaneer was passing out the papers, my heart started pounding, you know, but I thought about taking deep breaths, like you said, and then I was okay. I didn’t rush or anything, and I finished on time.”

  “You did great. Even without a curve.”

  “I did?”

  “Terrific,” I said.

  “Terrific,” she echoed. I could tell she was smiling, and I pictured her at the phone, sneakers untied as usual, eyes shining.

  When I first met Paolina she was seven years old, going on thirty, thin and tough as whipcord, with a knuckle splay of bruises across her right cheek, courtesy of one of her visiting “uncles.” Marta, Lord bless her, didn’t stand for that kind of thing. The guys could slap her around—something I’ve never understood, something I don’t want to understand—but mess with her kids and that was the end. When he wouldn’t stay away, she preferred charges against the guy who’d smacked Paolina, and some kind soul at the police station suggested Big Sisters for the small scared girl with the wide eyes.

  Marta doesn’t offer Paolina much in the way of praise, especially for schoolwork, because she’s not sure it’s any use to females. I’ve talked to her about it, and we’ve sort of agreed to disagree. So I try to fill the gap. I make sure I know when the tests come, and what the grades are, and I’m extremely generous with compliments. Paolina used to be so scared of taking tests, so sure she’d fail, that she’d faint or throw up. She used to spend testing days in the nurse’s office. Now she’s pulling As and Bs.

  Am I proud? Not so you’d notice, provided you’re blind and deaf.

  “Hey, about Saturday,” I said.

  “You can’t come?” Paolina’s always prepared for disappointment.

  “Of course I can come.” Sometimes, when I was a cop, I had to back out on our regular dates. Now I’m private, that doesn’t happen anymore. Ever. When you’re ten, there ought to be somebody you can rely on. “I just wanted to make sure you remembered.”

  “Noon, no?” she said, using the multisyllabic national marker. “I’ll be ready.”

  “I’ll honk.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Surprise,” I said, to cover the fact that I didn’t know yet. “Jeans and sneakers.”

  “Okay. And I want to talk to you.”

  “You’re talking to me.”

  “Not on the phone. When I see you.”

  “Anything special?”

  Her voice sounded troubled, but all she said was, “It’s about volleyball.”

  “Can it wait till Saturday?”

  “Sure,” she said, but she didn’t sound right.

  “Any tests tomorrow?”

  “Just a quiz. In Spanish.”

  “Better you than me,” I said.

  “Es verdad,” she agreed with a giggle.

  “Adios, amiga.” I hung up. There was this guy waiting to use the phone. I hadn’t even noticed him.

  It used to be easier to find places to take Paolina. Puppet Showplace in Brookline was great, but now she’s kind of old for that. They get so sophisticated so young, it kills me. And one of the Big Sister rules is not to spend much money. The kids come from poor families, and we’re not supposed to come on like fairy godmothers. Just friends.

  On the way back to Margaret’s, I decided I’d drive Paolina to this wild-animal farm in New Hampshire. The trees up north would be in full fall color, and she really likes animals. She’s got two scraggly cats already, and if Marta would okay the deal, I’d give her Red Emma in a flash.

  Paolina calls Red Emma Esmeralda, because she’s green. She’s trying to teach her a few choice Spanish phrases, and says the bird’s accent is better than mine.

  What with having three names, the bird probably can’t learn anything because she’s in the middle of an identity crisis.

  I cruised Margaret’s block to see if any cops still lurked there. No blue-and-whites out front, no anonymous vans, no suspicious unmarked sedans with elaborately casual guys reading newspapers in the front seats. The door didn’t have a police seal on it, but I could tell the lab boys had come and gone by the gritty residue on the brass pineapple door knocker. They must have gotten a great set of my prints.

  Since I had the front door key in my pocket, it didn’t take me long to get inside. I’d snitched it from Margaret’s handbag during the ambulance ride. As an honorary granddaughter, I figured the least I could do was bring her robe and slippers to the hospital.

  And as a private investigator, I could do what I’d intended to do that morning. Search Eugene’s room.

  Chapter 10

  I tell myself I have a mind above housework, but one glance at Margaret’s living room and I was sorely tempted to race to the kitchen for a broom, a mop, a bucket, Handy Andy, Spic and Span, anything. The memory of what the kitchen really offered—more chaos—held me back. That and the fear that maybe, God forbid, I was developing a latent housekeeping streak.

  If the crime lab team had bothered to step into the living room, they hadn’t righted the furniture, restuffed any cushions, vacuumed the rug, or dusted the mantle. They might have swiped a few bits of smashed china, but there was plenty still scattered on the scratched floorboards. From the foyer, the shards looked like exotic flower petals.

  Paolina painted a watercolor once, for art class, of three soggy crumpled yellow Kleenexes, next to a pile of orange peels. I keep that picture in my bedroom, framed. I like it. Her teacher didn’t. Her teacher asked her why she was painting garbage.

  Paolina told me it hadn’t been garbage from far away. In the picture, the Kleenex and the orange peels, floating gently in a gutter, are magical water lilies.

  It was the same with Margaret’s broken plates and vases. Far away, flowers. Close up, garbage.

  I tried to piece together two chunks of purple glaze, and dropped them back on the floor in disgust. Maybe I could bribe Roz to clean. Nobody s
hould have to come home from the hospital to a house that looked like the target of a wrecking ball. And Margaret Devens, I reassured myself, would come home.

  The cops had left a trail of muddy footprints on the stair carpeting. I followed them.

  Four bedrooms and a tiled bath opened off the narrow hallway. I glanced in each doorway. Picking Eugene’s room seemed easy. Only the left front bedroom, a largish room, maybe twelve by sixteen, lacked a pastel dust-ruffle and frilly lace curtains.

  Standing in the dimly lit hallway, I tried to imagine the room before the whirlwind struck, make a few guesses about the guy who’d slept there for sixteen years’ worth of nights. It didn’t seem like the room of a fifty-six-year-old man. I wondered if I’d stumbled on Gene’s boyhood bedroom, preserved intact as some family shrine.

  I checked the other rooms again, just to make sure. Frills and lace. Scented dusting powder. Only one room smelled of cigar smoke, the one I’d singled out first.

  The narrow bed’s brass headboard was barred and knobbed. The mattress had been yanked onto the floor, and slit repeatedly. Coils of wire poked out of the springs like jack-in-the-box toys. Over the bed hung a giant poster of young Carl Yastrzemski, Red Sox hero.

  So the searchers had been looking for something substantial, not a key, or a photo, or anything flat that could be taped behind smiling Yaz.

  I took a few steps into the room, letting my eyes wander. It’s hard to get to know a guy from his room when that room’s been trashed by persons unknown, and possibly rifled by the cops to boot.

  On surfaces not graced by old baseball posters, Eugene favored taped-up pages from girlie magazines. That was the total of his decorating pizazz, at his age, unless the previous searchers had stolen the Picasso prints off the paler rectangles on the walls. More likely Miss September had fallen into disfavor, or under the bed. Eugene read soft-porn “male adventure novels” that looked like Harlequin Romances for men. I loved the titles: Beyond Glory, Glorious Flames, Gunrunner to Glory. A whole lot of glory on the covers; that and big-breasted women falling out of slinky nightgowns.