Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  “Do you get it, Shay? Panzer,” Agnes repeated. “As in those big guns used in World War Two, I think. KA-BLAM!” She slammed her fist on the top of the card table, making the Mahjongg tiles bounce.

  I raised my eyebrows and glanced at Eddy. She said, “Oh, Aggie. You shut your yap about that. There’s much more to Molly than big guns. Take her fabulous cookies, for example.” Eddy beamed at Molly, who gave her a weak smile in return. I bet anything she was wondering what the hell she signed up for in joining this group.

  Molly said, “It’s nice to meet you, Shay. I’ve heard all kinds of things about you.”

  I’ll just bet she had. I said, “Nice to meet you too. Eddy, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Of course, child. Just let me pass these goodies out.” Eddy handed off the coffees and placed the platter of coffee cake at the edge of the card table, clear of the Mahjongg tiles.

  I headed back into the kitchen. After a minute, Eddy came though the door and said, “What’s up?”

  I leaned against the kitchen table. “I’m going to go talk to JT’s grandfather.”

  Eddy’s expression brightened. “Now that’s a darned good idea, if I do say so myself. I’ll come with.”

  “But—” I jerked a thumb toward the living room.

  Eddy waved a hand at me. “Don’t you worry about them old ladies. They were here before I got home and they’ll probably be here when we get back. Mahjongg takes awhile to play anyway.”

  If she wanted to leave cheroot-puffing gals playing a crazy tile game in her living room, that was fine by me. The mug was now lukewarm. I drained it and rinsed it out in the sink.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Shay,” Eddy said as she watched me. “You mark my words.”

  Eddy always had a way of reassuring me. If words didn’t work, she got the switch out so I was quickly reassured about whatever point she was trying to make. She said, “Good thing I think I feel my second wind coming. I’d love to meet Dimples.”

  I shot her a sideways look. “Dimples?”

  “Yes, silly girl. Haven’t you ever talked to JT about her grandpop?”

  “Well, yeah. She says he’s losing his mind and that it’s nothing I want to see. She always shut me down after the first question.”

  “That’s because you don’t know what the right questions are yet, child. Just you remember, with age comes wisdom and lots of hot gas.”

  Truer words were never spoken.

  seven

  Following Eddy’s observation on the value of sucking up to old folks through canine companionship, we rounded up Dawg and Bogey and loaded them in the truck.

  The Shady Grove Retirement and Assisted Living Facility was a newer complex with beautiful grounds. For the last few years, Dimples had been happily ensconced at Shady Grove in a one-bedroom apartment in the memory care wing.

  Bogey’s chin rested on Eddy’s shoulder, and a string of drool had worked its way out of the corner of his mouth and was nearing the corded knit of her forest-green sweater. Her fingers were busy scratching his ear. Dawg leaned against the backrest, letting Bogey hog the space between the seats.

  When Dawg first came to live with us, it took Eddy awhile to warm up to his canine charm. Once she did, that dog had her wrapped around his not-so-little paw. I’d been worried how she’d react when she found out JT was going to take Bogey in, but Dawg had done his job; she hardly blinked. Drool, dog poo, and shedding hair everywhere hardly made a blip on her radar anymore.

  Once we’d cleared ramp traffic and merged onto I-94 east, I asked, “Are you sure they’ll let dogs in?”

  “Almost all the geezer places nowadays let animals come visit. If they don’t, the dogs can just wait in the truck for us.”

  “True. So I’ll go to the front desk and ask for JT’s grandfather. Do you have any idea if he has a name other than Dimples?” How could anyone stand to be called a facial dent? That’s what I really wanted to know.

  Eddy shrugged. “Nope. But I’m sure they’ll know who he is.”

  A few minutes later we pulled into the parking lot. The complex was located south of 94, not far from its namesake, Shady Grove Park. It was brick and majestic, with a covered front entrance that tried to imitate a hotel instead of a place for the geriatric set to land.

  I took Dawg while Eddy wrangled Bogey, and we hoofed it for the main doors. A little old lady wrapped in a yellow housecoat with a blanket tucked around her sat in an electric wheelchair to one side of the entrance. She was so stooped over her face almost met her lap. I wasn’t sure if she was awake or asleep, but when we passed by her, she said without looking up, “Careful, or they’ll keep you here. They’re wily, they are.”

  Eddy stopped.

  I kept a wary eye on Bogey in case he attempted to go crotch diving. He’d probably accidentally break her nose.

  Eddy bent over and attempted to make eye contact. “Elva, that you? I thought they had you boxed up somewhere in Golden Valley.”

  The woman’s head remained facing her lap, but she said, “Was. Too much traffic. My son decided to corral me here where I can tour the parking lot. Less chance of getting flattened.”

  Eddy stood and squinted at the lot. “There’s lots of nice trees I guess. If you can see ’em. Gotta run, Elva. Catch you on the backswing if they haven’t locked you down by then.”

  We trooped through glass doors that automatically slid open as we approached. The lobby was large, and the vaulted ceiling allowed natural light to fill the space. A dark, granite-topped reception desk sat off to the left, and three hallways branched off, probably leading to resident rooms. A convenience store/gift shop faced the front doors, and two or three elderly shoppers browsed within.

  A bespectacled older gentleman with neatly trimmed iron-gray hair bustled around behind the reception desk. He wore a brown and yellow plaid button-down shirt under a mocha-colored leisure suit jacket that sported white stitching. Thirty-five years ago, he’d have been at the peak of style.

  “Help ya?” the man asked, a friendly smile on his craggy face. I was distracted by his eyebrows. They grew huge and bushy, more impressive than Andy Rooney’s. His still-sharp blue-gray eyes lit up when he saw Dawg and Bogey. “Nice dogs!” he said as he circled the counter and approached us. The polyester pants he wore were smartly creased high risers. There wasn’t a wobble in his stride.

  I said, “This is Dawg. D-A-W-G, Dawg. And Eddy there has Bogey.”

  The man reached a gnarled hand out and gave Dawg a chin rub. “If I had a treat, I’d give you one, young fella,” he told Dawg. Dawg slurped his fingers.

  Then he turned and took two steps toward Bogey, who was straining at the end of his leash. Before I could make a move to give Eddy a hand, Bogey embedded his nose right in Leisure Suit’s family jewels like a homing missile, his tail wagging wildly. After an alarmed “Bogey!” from Eddy and a wrestling match between me, Eddy, and the mad sniffer, we were back under control.

  Through it all, Dawg watched from the sidelines with a look of utter mortification. If he’d been human, I think he would’ve shook his head and said, “Bogey, you’re an embarrassment to the canine race.”

  “Sir,” I said, “I’m so sorry. We’re working on it, but …”

  “Not to worry,” Leisure Suit said, his grin still firmly in place. “That’s the most action I’ve gotten in a long time.”

  Eddy said, “You need another jolt, just say the word and we’ll be happy to accommodate you. Say, you don’t know Dimples Bordeaux, do you?”

  Oh God. Eddy had such a way with words. Good thing was, it often produced the results we wanted.

  Leisure Suit rubbed his chin and peered at the ceiling. “Yes, I surely do. He’s in the C wing, has a bit of a time recalling things, if

  I, myself, am recalling correctly. The tectonic plates are starting to slip, in more ways than on
e.” He rapped his forehead with his knuckles. “Nice chap. Let me just look up his room number.” With that, he practically skipped to the other side of the desk and shuffled through some sheets of paper. “Here he is. Unit C room 21. Though you might find him at the pool. Likes to watch the ladies”—he pursed his lips and seemed to search for a word—“swim.”

  Apparently JT’s grandfather still had an eye for the gals. I could just see an elderly JT hanging out poolside and ogling wrinkly chicks as they attempted to follow an overly enthusiastic water aerobics teacher through a reduced-impact shallow-end-of-the-pool routine. Is that what was waiting for us when we hit retirement age? I started to panic, then realized Eddy wasn’t anything like that, and we wouldn’t have to be either. Sheesh.

  “Well, thanks, handsome.” Eddy stuck out her hand. “What did you say your name was?”

  The man took Eddy’s and tugged her a bit closer. “I didn’t, you little vixen, you. It’s Olaf Madsen, at your service.”

  “I’m Edwina Quartermaine, and this here,” she jerked her thumb at me, “is Shay O’Hanlon, my long-lost daughter. Our colors might not match, but our hearts do. You’ve already met the drooling duo. You let four-legged friends into this joint?” Eddy leaned forward over the counter and beamed at Olaf. “You’re a real rascal, aren’t you?”

  “You stop by again, and we’ll see just what kind of a rascal I am, Edwina. Oh, yes, we do allow most all four-legged friends. Well, except rats and mice, of course.”

  We thanked him and headed off across the lobby toward the C wing. I leaned in toward Eddy and whispered, “Edwina? Really? What’s up with that? No one calls you Edwina.”

  She elbowed me. “Shush, child. My, but he was a looker, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was.” For a gentleman of a certain age, Olaf was indeed quite handsome.

  She wagged her head slowly, the expression on her face one of pleasant surprise. We hit the wide hall and started counting brass numbers attached to the wall beside each door. The place was bigger than it looked. We were looking for C21 and we’d just passed C2.

  A few of the heavy oak doors were open, and in the short glimpses I could steal, I saw what looked like typical apartments.

  The sounds of televisions at substantial volume floated through the air. Dawg and Bogey sniffed their way down the hall. There were plenty of new smells for them to puzzle over here.

  Two staff members passed us and paused to greet the dogs, then continued on their way. Finally, I saw C21 on the wall next to a closed door. “There it is.”

  Eddy knocked, and there was no answer. She rapped again, to no avail. “Should I see if it’s open?”

  “Yeah, maybe Dimples can’t hear too well anymore.” I tried to remember if JT mentioned anything about her grandfather’s hearing but drew a blank. Maybe I needed my own memory addressed.

  I tried the knob. The door silently swung open on well-oiled hinges. Eddy and I looked at each other. Eddy said, “Whatcha waiting for? Go see if he’s in there. I’ll wait here with the gruesome twosome.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Hey, he might be all keeled over in there. You’re the one who keeps finding dead bodies. You got practice with that. I’m good at the after-the-fact business. Once the body is gone stuff.”

  I handed over Dawg’s leash and stepped through the threshold. “Mr. Bordeaux? Sir? Are you in here?”

  Silence greeted me. The apartment felt empty.

  A tidy galley kitchen was on my left, sporting a refrigerator and microwave but no stove. Folding closet doors were to my right. The short entry ended in a T. Down the tiny hall to the right was an austere, neatly kept bedroom. Above the bed was a picture of a smiling, dark-haired young man in a policeman’s uniform with an attractive woman in a wedding dress on his arm. Most likely JT’s grandparents. It was obvious where she scored her good looks.

  I stuck my head into a dinky bathroom. It was unremarkable save for metal handrails that were mounted on the walls along with a red emergency call cord situated near the toilet.

  The living room was another story altogether. An old, twenty-inch TV sat against one wall. A recliner faced it, along with a couple of side chairs. It was a spare room, not in size but in the fact it missed the usual clutter of a life well lived—with one glaring exception.

  Pictures.

  There were photographs everywhere.

  One wall was dedicated to photos of JT from infancy to adulthood. I had taken one shot of JT not two months ago when we’d gone running around Lake of the Isles. The expression on her face pulled no punches regarding how she felt about the person on the other end of the camera.

  I sucked in a half-breath as phantom pain sliced through my soul. Now is not the time to fall apart, Shay, I chastised myself. There would be time for that later.

  There was also a series of portraits of JT as she progressed through her police career, through promotions and honors. For all the good JT had done as a cop, it was a damned shame that she had to hold so tightly onto the one incident that should’ve, by now, been dealt with and tucked far away. Then again, maybe tucking away trauma was something cops had a hard time doing. No, that was definitely not true; JT could compartmentalize with the best of them.

  I sighed and turned my attention to the rest of the living room. There were photos of Dimples and his wife, along with shots of JT’s mom and dad. There were a couple pictures of her brother as a kid. There was no doubt this man was proud of his family.

  “Shay!” Eddy called from the front door. “Is he dead in there or what?”

  I tore myself away from the Bordeaux family memories. “No one’s here,” I said and booked it out of the apartment.

  We struck out to find the pool. After asking three residents, two staff members, and accidentally getting lost in the caverns of the basement, we succeeded. A set of glass doors accessed the pool, and they were thoroughly steamed over. When I pulled one of them open, a hot chlorinated fog slithered out, wrapping its tendrils around us. The thumping bass of pounding music vibrated my frame.

  I waved my arm. “Holy cow, it’s a bit warm in there.”

  Eddy squinted. “It’s so the old farts don’t freeze to death. Come on.” She and Bogey marched into the warm, humid space.

  Dawg and I followed, and the door retracted behind us. Once the temperature equalized, the air cleared. Dawg whined, straining on the end of his leash toward the pool. Over the summer JT and I found out he loved water. I gripped the leather tighter in my hand lest Dawg decided to try and take a dip.

  The pool was huge, Olympic sized. A school team could come here for practice and there’d still be plenty of room for senior water polo.

  An energetic gal of advanced years led eight women, seven of whom wore brightly colored swim caps, in a sloshing pool-side rendition of the Village People’s “YMCA.” The music blared loud enough for even the hardest of hearing to pick up the beat.

  Not far from the splashing, three men bobbed in the aerobic backwash, face-up atop bright blue foam mattresses, watching the geriatric bouncing with intense interest.

  On one side of the pool, round white plastic tables with yellow umbrellas—to keep the fluorescent light off aged skin?—were lined up, and lounge chairs occupied the opposite side. Two women reclined atop towels on the loungers, reading.

  Since our quarry was most likely one of the guys floating in the pool, we headed toward them. As we drew closer, I realized all three gents weren’t merely watching the action, but were staring intently at the water dancing divas and periodically elbowing each other. Apparently one was never too old to ogle.

  We stopped at the edge of the pool.

  “Excuse me. Mr. Bordeaux?” I called out to the three mostly hairless pates. I received nary a twitch.

  Eddy elbowed me aside. “Dimples!” she hollered at the top of her lungs.

  One of the men craned
his neck to take a gander at us but couldn’t turn quite far enough around.

  “Over here,” Eddy shouted, adding a little wave.

  The man in question, floating between the other two gents, tried paddling first one way, then the other in an attempt to turn his floating mattress around. I could hear him swearing a blue streak as he bashed into his companions. Finally he managed to paddle our way, steaming slowly along feet-first.

  When the rubber mat eventually ran into the side of the pool and stopped his forward motion, he hooked gnarled fingers under the edge of the cement deck to keep himself from drifting away and squinted up at us. Whitish stubble covered his chin, and orange swim trunks came to just below his man-boobs. “Can’t see shit without my glasses. Whaddya want?”

  I knew it was going to sound ridiculous, but it had to be done. “Are you Dimples Bordeaux?”

  “What’s it to ya?” he growled.

  The tone of his voice startled Dawg, who squeaked and pressed himself hard against my leg. He was still skittish in certain situations. I put a calming hand on his head.

  Eddy said, “We want to ask you some questions about your grand-

  daughter.”

  “What’s that? Speak up, for Chrissake.”

  Bogey crept closer to Dimples, who now floated parallel to the cement side of the pool. Blue veins showed through the thin skin on the back of the hand that gripped the edge of the pool. Eddy held Bogey back and planted her feet wide in order to maintain control.

  I yelled, “JT. We want to talk to you about JT.”

  At the sound of his granddaughter’s name, the man broke into a wide smile. It was then I realized exactly why people called him Dimples. He had more divots in his cheeks than a golf course for beginners. JT’s chin was an exact replica of his—square and well-defined with an adorable dent in the center.

  “Where’s that JT? She here?” He peered around.

  “No, she’s not,” Eddy said loudly and took a step toward Dimples. That was all it took to get Bogey in sniffing range of the pool’s edge. He pulled Eddy another step forward, stretched his neck out over the floatie, and tried to plant his schnoz in the middle of Mr. Bordeaux’s swim trunks.