“Until some reporter or cop discovers the connection,” Susan said.
Kathleen frowned. “You’re probably right.”
“So all we have to do is investigate Nadine’s murder as well as three-or four-murders that took place on Perry Island over a year ago, while helping with the babies, not getting enough sleep, and doing all the extra things that houseguests demand.”
“You’re a modern woman. You can do it-with my help,” Kathleen said encouragingly. “So what do we do first?”
“I think I’ll go back to Perry Island and see if I can find out anything more.”
“Great. What do you want me to do?”
Susan looked up from the remains of her meal. “Isn’t it time you and Jerry thought about buying a bigger house?”
THIRTEEN
THERE WAS A BIT OF SPRING WARMTH IN THE SUNLIGHT AND Susan got out of her car and stood by the rail as the ferry chugged across the Sound to Perry Island. The water was the steely gray of winter, but willows on both the mainland and the island were showing the sharp yellow of new growth and the salty air felt fresh against her face.
“Are you perhaps on your way to P.I.C.C.?”
Susan hadn’t heard anyone approach over the roar of the boat’s diesel engine and she turned to discover an elderly couple standing at the rail nearby. “I… yes, I am. My mother is getting old…” She brushed her hair off her forehead and didn’t finish her explanation. Her mother, in fact, was probably younger than these people.
“It’s a very nice place,” he said to her.
The woman Susan assumed to be his wife reached out and placed one hand on Susan’s arm. “It is, you know. We looked at most of the nursing homes in this part of Connecticut before deciding on P.I.C.C. for Frank’s mother.”
Susan hoped she didn’t look as surprised by this statement as she felt. “Your mother?” she asked, and was immediately embarrassed by her rudeness.
But the gentleman only chuckled. “We live a long time in my family. My father passed a few months ago just six days short of his hundred and third birthday. Mother will be a hundred and one in June.”
“How wonderful!” Susan said sincerely. “I… could I ask you a few questions about P.I.C.C.?”
“Ask away. Stupid not to check out the place as thoroughly as possible,” he replied.
“Yes, dear, ask us anything,” his wife urged.
“I’ve only been there once, but it looks like a very nice place.”
“It is and the staff is quite caring and remarkably competent. You have to be very careful about that. Some of these places will hire just anybody. P.I.C.C. is still family owned, you know.”
“But I heard… that is, there were stories in the newspapers near us. I live in Hancock. Well, I heard that some of the residents were… died under suspicious circumstances a few years ago.”
“Oh, dear,” the woman said, her pleasant expression changing into a frown. “That was so sad. Three of the residents did die.”
“Three of the residents were murdered,” her husband interrupted. “Gotta call a spade a spade when it’s something as serious as murder. The police never found the culprit although some of us had our own ideas.”
“I understood that it could have been someone on the staff,” Susan said, getting right to what interested her.
“The staff members have the most access to the residents, of course. But I believe-and I think others who know the facility as well as my wife and I do would agree-that there are any number of people who could have killed those poor unfortunates.”
“Really?” Susan didn’t know if this was good news or bad news. On the one hand, it meant that Shannon was on a very long list of suspects rather than a short one. On the other hand, it probably made discovering the identity of the killer much less likely.
“Oh yes. You see, like all good nursing homes, P.I.C.C. encourages family members and friends to visit the residents as often as possible.”
“And they just let you walk right in. There isn’t a lot of standing around in the lobby waiting for them to get the resident ready for your visit,” his wife added.
“You mean things are up to snuff all the time,” Susan said.
The older woman nodded so vigorously that locks of gray hair slipped from her neat bun. “That’s one of the things you want to look for when you’re considering placement for a relative. Some of these places-well, they don’t stand up to their promises on close inspection.”
“But in reference to the murders”-her husband returned them to their initial subject-“visits are allowed at any time, day and night. I believe that almost anyone could have gotten into P.I.C.C. claiming to be a friend of a resident and then killed those people.”
“So allowing unlimited visitations might not be a good idea,” Susan mused.
“Well, you can’t have it both ways, my dear. Either you give people the freedom to do bad things or you keep the residents from what little contact with the outside world is possible for them.”
“I suppose. But this is an island. Wouldn’t that limit the number of people who come here?”
“Not really. The ferry service is regular so people can come and go from the mainland six times a day. And there are year-round island residents as well as seasonal renters. No, I don’t think the location of the nursing home limits the number of suspects in any way… But here we are. We had better get back in our cars and prepare to leave the ferry. Perhaps we’ll see you at P.I.C.C., my dear.”
“Yes. I have to see something else on the island first, but maybe we will run into each other,” Susan said, heading for her Cherokee. She didn’t want anyone at P.I.C.C. to know she was interested in the unsolved murders just yet so she thought that she would try to arrive at the home after these people. And, now that the subject of life outside of the nursing home had come up, she decided to explore the rest of the island. Driving off the ferry, she turned down the road in the opposite direction of her former destination. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she was fairly sure that, on an island, she would ultimately end up where she began.
The road outlined the coast and Susan drove slowly, admiring the view and the enormous cottage style homes so popular a century ago when large staffs were common and heating costs minimal. Small wooden signs indicated the locations of public fishing docks and beaches, but she didn’t turn off until an arrow pointed the way to Perry Town. Following directions, she found herself at the intersection of two streets devoted to various shops, a small grocery store, a large liquor store, a real estate agency, and the local branch of an international bank. She pulled her car over to the side of the road, parked, got out, and looked around.
She stopped in front of a tiny shop. ISLAND BOOKS AND GIFTS-SUSTENANCE FOR THE MIND AND THE EYE was printed on the display window and from the open doorway came the scent of fresh brewed coffee. A brass bell tinkled as Susan pushed the door open wider and walked inside.
A short, heavyset woman with curly blond hair greeted her enthusiastically. “Welcome. Welcome. I’m Mandy Duncan. I own this store and you’re my first customer of the day! How can I help you? Thrillers? Mysteries? Romance novels? Nonfiction? Biography? I’m small, but I carry them all as well as gifts.”
But Susan had spied a large poster for The Wizard of Oz hanging over a shelf of children’s books and she was drawn in that direction. “The Big Snow… that was one of my favorites when I was little.” She plucked the book from the shelf.
“An early Caldecott award winner. Wonderful book. I believe I have a few other volumes by the Haders as well.” Mandy Duncan knelt down beside the shelf and rummaged through the stacks, passing volume after volume to her customer.
“I’ll take them all,” Susan said. “And…”
“And?”
“I thought I smelled coffee.”
“I have a coffee bar up by the cash register. Can I get you a cup while you look?”
“That really would be wonderful.” Susan stood up, her arms full.
“I hope it’s to your liking. I began offering snacks a few weeks ago and I’m never quite sure if I use too many beans or too few.”
“Just as long as it’s hot,” Susan said, sitting down on a stool and placing the books on the counter. “Have you owned the store long?”
“Almost a decade, but things have changed for bookstore owners in recent years. I used to be the only outlet for books on the island. And I still am if you don’t count Amazon and Barnes & Noble online. Unfortunately they can have books delivered to their customers before I’ve even gotten them into my ordering system. The gifts and snacks are my attempt to keep my head above water and the store making a profit.”
“It must be difficult to run any business on an island,” Susan commiserated.
“Depends on the business. This is mainly a summer resort community and so the real estate office does quite well with rental properties; the bank and the grocery store deal with necessities and do just fine, too. But I’m afraid there are simply too many people in the world who don’t consider books a necessity.”
“Well, I’m not one of them,” Susan assured her, eyeing a shelf of new biographies. “But I’m not really on the island to buy books. I came here because my mother is getting old and I’m looking for a nursing home.”
“ Perry Island Care Center. An excellent facility.”
“Really?” Susan asked. The response had been abrupt and she thought a certain coldness had crept into their conversation. She decided to jump right in. “I’ve heard wonderful things about it, but there were those murders…” She left her thought unfinished.
The store owner nodded sadly. “Yes. One of my best friends and my best customer was killed. I mean she was my best customer…”
“And one of your best friends as well,” Susan finished. “I understand.” She paused. “Perhaps she was the teacher that I heard… read about,” she corrected herself.
“Yes, I believe there was more mention of Carolyn Breen’s life than the lives of the others who were murdered. She was a remarkable woman.”
“How long was she at the nursing home?” Susan asked gently.
“Almost ten years.”
Her answer came as a complete surprise to Susan. “Really? I thought most people… well, to tell the truth, I thought most people in nursing homes didn’t live in them that long, that they would be in assisted living or something less…” She didn’t finish, realizing that she really had very little idea of what she was talking about.
“I know what you mean. You think of becoming infirm, needing some help, as something that happens gradually. And it does for many people, maybe for most of us. But that wasn’t true for Carolyn. You see, she had multiple sclerosis. And, in her case, it meant that she needed a lot of care at a fairly young age.”
“Oh. So not everyone in a nursing home is old,” Susan said.
“Heavens no. There are three residents at P.I.C.C. younger than thirty.”
“Why are they there?”
“Two are in comas. It takes a lot of care to keep someone unconscious alive. And one is a young woman, Molly Reilly-she’s quadriplegic. She just turned twenty-four last week. I was at her birthday party.”
“So she’s a friend.” Susan spoke slowly, trying to digest this information.
“Sort of. She’s been at P.I.C.C. for three years and I used to see her when I was there dropping off books and visiting Carolyn. The staff at P.I.C.C. is wonderful, but of course it is impossible for Molly to have any sort of normal life living there. They make a big deal out of her birthdays. Half the island was invited to the party.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Actually it is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Molly so happy. But, of course, in her circumstances, I probably wouldn’t be perky either.”
“No, I guess not.” Susan was silent for a minute, sipping her coffee and thinking. “Does she get many visitors?”
“Not enough. Some of the people around here do make a point of stopping in to see her a few times a month, but that’s about it.”
“What about her family?”
“Her parents are divorced. Her father lives in California and manages to make a flying visit once or twice a year. Her mother lives in Groton and comes to see her about once a month. I gather those visits are very painful for both of them.”
“Poor girl,” Susan said.
“Yes.”
“About the murders…,” Susan began.
Mandy Duncan ’s open, welcoming expression faded. “I don’t like to think about them.”
“But if Mother is going to live at P.I.C.C., well, I have to ask.”
“They were an aberration. Nothing like that has ever happened on the island before. You don’t have to worry about your mother’s safety.”
Susan was astounded. “Why? How could you possibly know that?”
“Because the murderer killed the person he-or she-wanted to kill and then killed everyone who knew who had done it, including Carolyn.”
Susan didn’t mind repeating herself. “How could you possibly know that?”
Mandy Duncan got up, locked the door, flipped over the OPEN sign, and proceeded to answer Susan’s question.
FOURTEEN
“ABOUT TWO DAYS BEFORE SHE DIED… BEFORE SHE WAS killed… Carolyn called me at the store; she said she needed to talk to me and asked that I come over to P.I.C.C. that evening. I didn’t suspect that anything was wrong, but I should have. She had never done that before.”
“Never asked you to come to P.I.C.C.?”
“Not without a reason. She frequently ordered books and asked me to either have them delivered or to deliver them myself. I loved talking to Carolyn so, unless it was completely impossible, I always made the trip over there myself.”
“And she knew that?”
“Yes, I’m sure she did. Anyway, she called around four-thirty-half an hour before I usually close the store-and asked me to come over sometime after six-thirty. I said yes and asked her if there was anything she needed. I often picked up things for her at the drugstore or the grocery when I was delivering books. She said no, nothing, so I ate dinner early and arrived at P.I.C.C. around six-thirty-five.”
“Did she tell you what she wanted to talk with you about?”
“No. I didn’t have a single hint what was coming.”
“Which was?”
The bookstore owner didn’t answer right away and when she did it was with a question of her own. “Are you investigating the murders at P.I.C.C.?”
Susan didn’t answer immediately and Mandy continued. “I don’t only carry books. In the summer I carry newspapers for summer people who want to keep up with what’s going on in their hometown. I recognized you from an article about the murder of the building inspector in Hancock a few years ago. There was a photo layout.”
Susan nodded. She remembered both the article (inaccurate) and the photo (was it possible that she actually looked that awful today?). “Yes, I am.”
“Why? Why not just put your mother in a different nursing home and forget about P.I.C.C.?”
“My mother is an excuse.” Susan decided to trust this woman with her secret. “I just became a grandmother-twins-and the baby nurse was here at the time of the murders. She’s wonderful, but I’m worried about what happened here.”
“You think she might hurt your grandchildren?”
“No. I’m afraid she will be accused of murdering my next-door neighbor who was stabbed to death in her kitchen two days ago.”
Mandy’s eyes widened. “You do live an interesting life, don’t you?”
“Too much so,” Susan agreed.
“Well, I don’t know about your nurse, but I’ll tell you what I do know. I’m happy to do anything that might help capture Carolyn’s killer.”
“That’s wonderful. You were telling me what happened when you went over to P.I.C.C. to see Carolyn.”
“It was an odd visit. There was an after-supper program going on. Supper is
very early at P.I.C.C. It begins around five and is usually over by six. After-supper programs begin at six-thirty and take an hour or so. Sometimes there’s a late-night snack after the program-well, as late night as things get in a nursing home. Anyway, there was a pianist and a singer that night who were performing old Sinatra songs. I knew that sort of thing wouldn’t appeal to Carolyn so I avoided the living room.”
“There’s a living room at P.I.C.C.?”
“Sort of. That’s what they call the large room if you turn right when you enter the building. It’s furnished with comfortable sofas and chairs and there’s a fireplace that is sometimes turned on in the winter. It’s about as close to a living room as you can find in an institution.”
“But Carolyn wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t even bother to look. She used to say that her musical taste ran more to the baroque than the banal.” Mandy paused and took a sip of her coffee. “I’m making her sound like a snob and Carolyn was anything but. She read mystery novels as avidly as she reread Elizabeth Gaskell and Jane Austen. She adored going to art museums, but she collected Mickey Mouse watches. She played in a weekly poker game that the staff at P.I.C.C. has been holding for decades-completely outside of their officially sanctioned functions.”
“She sounds like an interesting person.”
“She was. And she had a Ph.D. in Victorian lit and had taught at one of the most respected private schools in the country for decades.”
“Brilliant and practical?”
“Yes. And the MS hadn’t affected her mind one bit. Not one bit!” Mandy repeated with emphasis.
“So when she said something, people-intelligent people who knew her-listened,” Susan concluded.
“Exactly.”
“What did she say?”
Mandy surprised her by jumping to her feet and hurrying over to the cash register. “I wrote it down. After she died, I wrote down what I could remember.”
Susan, who knew that memory could be enhanced or diminished by shock, reached out to take the sheet of yellow-lined paper Mandy offered. She looked at the document, a frown appearing on her face while she read. “It seems…” She stopped and began again. “I don’t know what to say. Did she mention any other names?”
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