I started to set the garbage bin back on its feet.
“But she hasn’t been out of the house. At least I remember Anya saying she doesn’t have a car. So if she’s bought anything or gotten anything or written anything down, where has she stashed those papers?” Stevie held open a big black trash bag.
“I’m planning to look in her purse,” I admitted. I hated telling my daughter and her friends that I was going to perform an act I didn’t approve of. “It’s wrong, but I need to protect my mother. There’s something going on here, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”
Stevie grinned. “Looks like you already did. Sort of.”
We all laughed as he pointed to the trash can.
“She keeps her bag with her. I mean, she’s very careful about it,” said Anya. “See, Mom, I had the same idea. I’ve been watching, waiting for a chance to get a look at her driver’s license, but she’s really keeping an eye on that purse.”
“What did you hope to find?” Nicci picked up receipts by their corners and dropped them into the small bag they belonged in.
“Something signed with her real name.”
“That would be on paper, right?” Nicci asked.
“Recycling!” we all shouted at once. I ran into the garage and grabbed the blue plastic bin with the white logo on the front. Once again we tipped the contents out onto the plastic tarp.
Since Sheila didn’t separate her recycling, we sorted through a motley mess of cans, paper scraps, plastics, and newspapers. Most of it was intact, but Stevie found several pieces of paper that had been shredded by hand. Those we slipped into my plastic bag.
“She might have figured by shredding her stuff, you wouldn’t put the pieces together. I mean, that’s what I would have done,” said Stevie.
I thanked him, his sister, and my daughter. The kids were going back to the Moores’ house to watch marathon sessions of Community, their current favorite television show. I didn’t worry about Anya while she was at the Moores’ home. Jennifer knew all about Bill, and the Moores’ personal wealth caused her to be naturally cautious.
“Stevie, do you share any classes with Peyton? How’s she doing?”
I handed him a moist towelette so he could wipe his hands.
“Actually, she’s doing pretty well. See, her grandmother didn’t approve of—of her friendships. She threatened to cut Peyton out of her will if she didn’t go to prom with a suitable guy,” said Stevie with a heavy emphasis on the word “guy.”
“That must have been tough. Trying to be her own person and feeling that disapproval.” I held open a trash bag so he could toss in the dirty wipe.
“It’s tough on anyone who’s the least bit different,” he said. His eyes echoed his sadness, but a small smile played around his mouth.
It’s not easy to be young, I thought as I waved goodbye to the departing Volvo.
Seventy-three
How much did Peyton resent her grandmother? Had the pressure that Edwina Fitzgerald put on her granddaughter finally caused the child to crack?
I phoned Detweiler and told him my theory. “Deanna came from a family that’s familiar with firearms. What if she passed that interest on to Peyton?”
He was quiet for a second. I could tell he was gathering his thoughts. “Okay, but I’m confused. If Peyton Fitzgerald didn’t participate in the May Day ceremony, why did her parents and grandmother go? I mean, parents attended to see their daughters dance. But she wasn’t dancing. I don’t get it.”
“I do. You see, even if Peyton didn’t perform, the Fitzgeralds went because this is a tradition. Most importantly, Mrs. Fitzgerald—Edwina—really loved the ceremony. And her word was law in that family. Remember? I told you she threatened to cut off funding if CALA discontinued it.”
I could tell he was thinking this over.
“So if Peyton wasn’t performing, she could have been the shooter.”
“It’s a possibility,” I said. “Look, I have to return the family photos to the Fitzgeralds. I’ll see what I can find out—”
“No!” said Detweiler. “Leave it alone, Kiki. I mean it. We can’t afford to have you compromise our investigation, much less the situation with Bill.”
Taking that cue, I changed the subject, telling him about the shredded papers I had. I promised to text message him any information I found about Claudia.
The morning went by quickly at the store. The nice spring weather encouraged folks to drop in and buy colorful, floral paper for projects. A steady stream of customers kept me hopping.
Taping together the torn receipts we’d found in the trash would have to wait until Clancy came in at 3 p.m. to help. She’d worked the early shift with Margit and Dodie over at Faust Park. As usual, Clancy wore a classic style that complemented her trim figure. Her taupe linen pants were topped with a tangerine-orange silk blouse and a matching jacket. A tortoiseshell barrette held her hair to one side. She could have doubled for a young Jackie Kennedy Onassis.
“How are things out at Faust?”
“Okay, I guess. We’ve sold a lot of page kits. Dodie asked me to have you make more up, please.” From her pocket she pulled a list of styles and themes.
“Gee, I better get cracking. But first, how’s your mother?”
Clancy avoided my gaze. “Don’t ask.”
“I am asking. Hey, Clancy, it’s me. What’s up?” I motioned her over to the paper racks where I could start pulling what I needed to make more page kits.
Her lower lip trembled, but she stiffened her spine and said, “She’s insisting that I move into her house.”
“What are you planning to do?”
Seventy-four
She raised her shoulders and let them drop. This admission of defeat changed her posture, causing her to slump over and hang her head. “They gave me the name of a geriatric psychiatrist. Dr. Bernard Terra. I’ve got a call in to him.”
“But you don’t think it will do any good?”
“No, I don’t. My mother isn’t interested in talking to him. She keeps demanding to go home. Then she turns on me and tells me what a selfish child I am. How she gave up everything to put me through school, and how I’m too self-centered to help my dear old broken-down mother. She’s even said that I want her dead. That I am selfish and cruel and I’m breaking her heart.”
“Ouch.” I paused while collecting embellishments. Clancy isn’t much of a toucher, usually, but I patted her shoulder anyway. I figure that even if she doesn’t shower me with affection, I’ll offer her mine. As long as it doesn’t make her uncomfortable, I plan to keep on being me.
The store was empty, so I didn’t worry about anyone seeing her in distress or overhearing our conversation. Otherwise I might not have pursued the subject.
Clancy sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “They brought in a social worker to talk with Mom. She had been by the house to see the setup. The social worker told Mom it would need to be overhauled to be safe. We’d need to remove all the area rugs and add handrails. That’s in addition to putting a bathroom downstairs. Mom, of course, is refusing to consider those changes. I suggested she could move in with me, as my house would be easier to modify. I have a bath on the first level. The hallways are wider. There’s already a safety rail in the shower.”
“What does she say?”
“She refuses to consider it. She says that I’m after her house.”
“Wow. It doesn’t get much worse than that.”
“Why would I want her house? I’ve never taken anything from Mom. Ever. I have my own house, and I’m willing to share it so she can remain independent. But she refuses to listen. Nothing I say is right. My mom’s on the warpath.” Clancy paused to wipe tears from her face with a trembling hand. “She’s lying there in a hospital bed looking fragile and tiny, but she’s never been so p
owerful. I’ve never seen her so angry. I understand she’s scared and dependent, but I’ve always been there for her.”
“Right, but now she can’t do for herself. I bet she’s choosing to feel angry instead of feeling helpless.”
Clancy nodded. “That’s what Dr. Terra said. Rage is common in the elderly, especially when their world gets smaller and their options less appealing. They get angry with the people they know won’t desert them. So the caregiver gets the brunt of the emotion.”
“So what exactly are her options?”
“She could move into an assisted living facility, she could move back to her old house, or in with me. Frankly, I don’t want her with me, but I’ll do that rather than have her in a care facility. All this is dependent on her taking physical therapy to regain her mobility.”
“Is fixing up her house a realistic option?”
“No. There are six concrete stairs out front, the bathroom is on the second floor, the wood flooring is slick, the lighting is dim. Honestly, it’s the worst possible choice for someone who is elderly.” Clancy gave a bitter laugh. “You can’t imagine all the money I’ve spent to fix Mom’s air-conditioning, to re-roof that old monstrosity, and to cover her checks when she’s bounced them. Plus, the amount I pay to have her car serviced regularly and to put on new tires, even though the Buick sits in her garage because she’s too blind to drive it. Yet Mom keeps saying that I want her money. That I’m trying to take the house and sell it so I can pocket the dough.”
“You didn’t get receipts for all that work? Don’t you keep a ledger?”
“She’s my mother. Do you run a spreadsheet on your family? No, I didn’t think so. None of us do. But maybe we should.”
Time to change the subject. I knew Clancy was good at puzzles and word games. I showed her the torn slips of paper. “See if you can make heads or tails of this.”
When she finished, she called me over.
“Boy, you are good,” I said with a low whistle. “Really good.”
Seventy-five
Sunday, May 9
Sundays were always a special day for Anya and me. Because Robbie had done such a great job with breakfasts all week, I made German pancakes for everyone. Claudia polished hers off and had both seconds and thirds. I also poured coffee for her and for mom.
“That hot chocolate you made for us last night was really good.
Is it a secret recipe?” asked Claudia.
“I put mocha flavoring in it,” I explained. Mocha flavoring in the form of Ex-Lax maximum strength. By my calculations, any minute and we’d have blast off. I know I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. Not one bit. Ever since she’d arrived, old Claudia had stuck to my mother like a pilot fish latches onto a shark. She had no respect for the concept of family time or privacy or boundaries. Several times I’d asked Claudia to excuse us so Mom and I could talk, but Claudia just laughed and said, “Why? Luci and I don’t keep secrets from each other.”
The Ex-Lax trick was harsh, I’ll admit, but finally I’d had enough. That’s when I decided to teach old Claudia a thing or two.
I hoped Sheila had a good supply of toilet paper.
“Mom, how about coming with Anya and me to Laumeier Park? It’s a cool outdoor sculpture park that I think you’d really enjoy. You always love art.” No sooner than I’d gotten the words out of my mouth when Claudia interrupted.
“Of course, Lucia and I would like to go. We’ve been cooped up in this house for days. Honestly, I am so bored.”
“I figured we’d leave in an hour or so. I have laundry to do first.” I needed to give my “hot chocolate secret recipe” a little more time to work.
As I washed and ironed clothes, I heard the toilet flushing repeatedly in Mom’s room.
After ten minutes went by—and the flushing didn’t stop, Mom toddled down the stairs. “I’m ready, but Claudia won’t be joining us. She has an upset tummy. Do you have any Imodium?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, no, I don’t. Maybe we could pick up tablets while we’re out.”
“I hate to leave her here when she’s not feeling well.”
“We won’t be gone long. I have to work this afternoon. We’re having a Mother’s Day card crop at the store.”
Anya stared out the window. She was a bit too old for outings like this, but she was taking a photography class and needed outdoor shots. I reminded her of all the cool stuff at Laumeier, including the huge eye, the walking roots, the Leelinau, and the poets. On any given Sunday in the spring, Laumeier’s winding walkways would be filled with visitors. I’d even come here on frigid winter days and found I was one of many who admired the austere beauty, the dramatic juxtaposition of bare branches against sculptured steel, concrete, sod, and other materials I couldn’t identify. Today proved no exception; we were joined by many who wandered happily among the sculptures.
Mom found the grounds enchanting. “I love the fact you can walk around all these pieces.”
Anya ran on ahead while my mother and I walked. We hadn’t gone far when Mom complained that she needed to tinkle.
“Mom, you seem to be having to go a lot,” I said. “Maybe we need to have you checked out by a doctor.”
She admitted that might be a good idea. “Claudia says I’m fine, but it is getting annoying.” I promised to make her an appointment or at least start making calls on Monday. We found a restroom, she tried to relieve herself, and we started back along the pathway.
Pulling papers from my pocket, I asked, “Do you know anyone by the name of Beverly Glenn?”
Seventy-six
“No. Why?”
I didn’t tell her that one of the receipts we’d pieced together had this name as a signature. The handwriting matched Claudia’s.
“Hmm. How did you meet Claudia? She seems to care a lot about you.” I nearly choked on the words, but I managed to spit them out.
“I thought you knew. She worked for Rena McMurray. Rena is in my bridge club. She about drove Claudia nuts,” said my mother with a chuckle. “Rena is nothing but an old hillbilly with shoes on. She doesn’t know much. Hasn’t been anywhere exciting. But I’ve always been kind to Rena, so I continued to stop by even after Rena got sick again.”
“Got sick again” was my mother’s euphemism for getting cancer. My mother had been a smoker most of her life, and she refused to believe that cigarettes could cause tumors. She would still be a smoker if she hadn’t had pneumonia ten years ago. The combination of fluid in her lungs and wheezing made smoking impossible, so Mom quit.
“Gosh, Claudia must have a background in nursing. I mean, she cared for Rena, didn’t she?”
“Claudia doesn’t have a medical background. She doesn’t need one. She was there to help Rena because Rena couldn’t do for herself. But that’s not why Claudia hurried here to be with me. I called her from your phone, you know. You see, she puts my needs first,” said Mom with a sly grin. I caught the zinger but ignored it. “She’s not here because I need her. She’s here because she loves me.”
“Loves you,” I repeated. I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation. My mother had gone bats-in-the-belfry, totally whack-o, cuckoo for coconuts. I wished I’d brought along a tape-recorder because no one would ever believe this bizarre turn of events. “Claudia loves you.” I said it again to make it more real.
“Yes, she thinks I’m fascinating. I’m the first celebrity she’s ever met. Why she could listen for hours to my stories about being on stage!”
I cleared my throat and spoke carefully, “Um, so if you couldn’t pay Claudia, she would still want to spend time with you.”
“Of course. However, she and I have discussed my finances. I’ve come to realize you’re not capable of helping me. So, I’m perfectly happy to sign my part of the house I share with Amanda over to Claudia. That w
ay dear Claudia will always have a place to live.”
Seventy-seven
I managed to catch Amanda on the first ring. When I told her what Mom and Claudia planned, she whispered, “You HAVE to be kidding? Where would that leave me? I’ve kept a roof over Mom’s head for ten years! The promise was that when she died, I’d recoup my expenses by inheriting her share of the house!”
To my amazement, Amanda burst into tears. “That’s all the thanks I get? For making sure Mom has a place to live? Kiki, I’ve paid all the utilities and taxes on this house for years. And now our mother is more worried about where Claudia Turrow, or whoever she is, will live than she is about the quality of my life? It’s … it’s …
unbelievable.” For the next five minutes, Amanda fumed and sputtered. I didn’t know my baby sister could curse like that.
“Amanda, she’s a sick old woman. It’s not about you. It’s about Mom and this person kissing up to her.”
“I know,” said Amanda. “But she’s not so sick that I can use my power of attorney. Mom’s in her right mind. Even if what she’s doing is wrong. I’ll go over and talk with Rena McMurray’s daughter today. I hate barging in on them at a time like this, but we can’t wait.”
“What if they ask Claudia for her social security number? Maybe they could say they have to send her a tax form? That might help us track down her real identity.”
“She’s been paid in cash, Kiki. I know it because Rena told me so, and Claudia did, too.”
“There’s always the I.R.S. Maybe we turn Claudia in to them. I thought of another angle. Claudia seems to be very religious. Maybe if you find out what church she attends, they might have a directory.”
“Tried that. She’s listed as Claudia Turrow. That’s it, that’s all.”
A few minutes later, I walked through the back door of the store. We weren’t officially open for another half hour. I took the CALA yearbooks out of my satchel and flipped to the pages where Peyton Fitzgerald was pictured.
Ready, Scrap, Shoot Page 19