by Rae Richen
“Put your sunglasses on,” she said.
Confused, he did what she told him. He knew she had a reason.
“Okay, now look at him,” she said. Her gaze went to his glasses. “Ah! The guy with the curly hair and the tormented belt-line?”
“The very one. Have you done this before?”
“Lived in a neighborhood where you had to keep an eye on your back. I’m turning and taking a photo.”
Glyn held very still so that her turn was the only movement. He was glad her room lights were out, and the door closed. Maybe the guy wouldn’t notice her in this room.
Her phone camera clicked several times and then she turned back to him.
“Ten times magnification. Let’s back toward the non-window side of the room. I’ve got homework for all the band members for tonight, including from Mr. Ventura.”
“Really? Gee that’s something. He doesn’t give that out lightly.”
“He understands ‘threat to school population’,” she said.
Glyn thought Mr. Ventura was more likely to understand Mrs. Price’s brilliant smile and sense of humor. She often used those weapons in class to gather her students toward mutual learning goals.
He turned his attention toward the guy out on the sidewalk in front of the school.
“So, the fat guy is here,” Glyn said. “That means he knows Trace and the other Ancient Nation members go to Eisenhower High School.”
“And I’ve got a feeling his helpers watch other doors,” she said. “Skinny, you said, yes?”
“His helpers? Yep. Skinny like don’t eat because they’re high.”
“The helpers are probably out there somewhere, too. How can we get you out of here?”
“I know how to get into the tunnels from here to the incinerator tower out by the pool.”
“Can you show me?” she asked. “I may need that myself.”
“What? You’d never need a quick escape from an irate parent.”
She laughed. “No. More from a boring meeting.
Mrs. Price fished in her huge bag, thumbing through multiple small, zippered bags. Puzzled, he watched her baggy process.
“What are you looking for?”
“A light.”
“Your cell phone?”
Mrs. Price point to the nearby table where her ancient flip phone sat.
At last, she produced a flashlight, held it up, and raised an eyebrow at him.
“Yep,” he said. “That’ll definitely help.”
“Be prepared,” she said.
He laughed.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Price handed him an envelope with all the homework papers. She turned off her flashlight and opened the door near the bottom of the old incinerator.
“Good thing these burners aren’t used anymore,” Glyn said.
Mrs. Price said, “Haven’t been for years. I don’t see anyone out there that I don’t know already.”
“Thanks for the papers.”
“I’m not going to ask how you discovered this route out of here, but I’m glad to know about it.”
“See you in a week.”
“Tomorrow is DeAndre’s turn to collect homework, right?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ll tell him to get there through the tunnel.”
“No. I’ll meet him at the incinerator door. Seven-thirty, sharp.”
“Great.” Glyn waved a good-bye and headed toward the hardware store for a new door lock for Grandma’s door. All the way, he looked over his shoulder for any followers of Curly-haired Big Gut.
**
In the afternoon, Willie Stamps sat with the other sopranos in the Holly Hill Choir and watched Mr. Stapleton give the final beat of the rehearsal. She saw exactly why Geneva believed him a German scientist. His bush of white hair stood out from his head as if electrified. His jaw line might be described as heroic. Or a timid person might say his jaw seemed belligerent.
However, Jack Stapleton knew his music, and he knew how much voice an old person could produce, with the right encouragement and explanation for supported breathing, and proper use of mouth and head space.
And, as with all of Geneva’s supposed War-time Nazis, Mr. Stapleton was too young. Geneva herself had been a five or six-year-old child at the end of World War II. No one presently near her age could have been responsible for what happened to her.
However, as her mind went back over frightening times, Geneva lost her perspective.
Willie couldn’t change Geneva’s mind. Only Geneva could do that.
Now, however, Willie worried about what she’d discovered for Violeta. With both Rosaria and Liza missing, it had begun to look as if the trail between Portland and George Fox College endangered students. Her friend, Captain Reese worked to find out more about Liza’s trip. Also, he worked with the college to know if any other students were missing.
As Willie picked up her song book and prepared to say goodnight to others in the choir, she found Rolly Goforth and Leah Müller descending on her.
Leah spoke first. “We’re sure you’ll join us in this. We insist that the management put Geneva Oppenheim in the Alzheimer’s ward. She can’t be allowed to screech about the war anymore. Enough.”
Before Willie could say anything calming, Rolly chimed in. “She’s a danger to all of us.”
“How so?” Willie asked. “What has she done other than mistake you for a German she once knew?”
Leah said, “Others will think she may be correct.”
“Others will know that’s impossible, Leah. You weren’t even born.”
“She’s clearly losing it.”
“As we all are. We wouldn’t have moved here if we weren’t slowing down mentally and physically. We learn to accept our frailties and those of our fellows.”
Willie stared at these two quietly, letting them think about the truth of the situation. Neither Rolly nor Leah appeared to be taking it in.
Willie said, “You are both working hard to avoid that slowing, or even to think about it. But it is happening.”
Leah hissed, “She has accused you of being the cook in the camp.”
“She has. Evidently, the cook had a similar name. Geneva is not dangerous. Leave her alone.”
Rolly leaned in and whispered, “We’ll see what management thinks about that.”
Leah swiveled to go. Rolly puttered after her.
Willie again picked up her music, but saw that Jack Stapleton stood nearby talking to Don Corrigan, who hovered next to where the choir had been practicing, head in hands. Jack waved her over.
“Mrs. Stamps, Mr. Corrigan is confused about where he lives.”
Willie sat down next to Mr. Corrigan. “Don,” she said. “I’ve seen you listening to my readings on the fourth floor. But I’ve also seen you walking with your nephew on my floor. Does floor four or eight sound right to you?”
He sat up and smiled at her. “Eight. I think it is eight.”
“Do you have a key in your pocket?”
He began fishing in many pockets. Papers fell to the floor. Willie picked them up and held them as he continued to fish. After a few moments, he came out with an official Holly Hill key chain, a logo of roses entwined with holly.
Everything in Portland, Oregon somehow came up Roses.
The number on the key was 808.
“There you have it,” Willie said.
Don stared at it and then smiled at her. “I have it.”
“Would you like to ride up in the elevator with me?”
His smile grew even more brilliant. “I would.”
Jack Stapleton nodded and began collecting his music from the piano top. “Thank you, Mrs. Stamps.”
“I am Willie. We’re glad to have you here, Mr. Stapleton. Singing, however wobbly, is very good for us all.”
He glanced up from his music. “I’m Jack. I enjoy being able to work with you. I enjoy singers at every age. They love music as much as I do.”
Willie turned to Don. “I see you like to listen to
the rehearsals.”
He looked puzzled. “Rehearsals?”
“Practice. For the choir.”
“Oh. Yes, I like that.”
As they approached the elevator, Willie noticed that Leah and Rolly were down the hall talking to the administrative secretary of Holly Hill.
She glanced back at Don and saw that he had already punched the ‘up’ button near the elevator door. She remembered how children always wanted to be the one punching the buttons on an elevator. At least he hadn’t forgotten that early fun.
When the elevator arrived, they went in. She stood at the elevator’s back and waited. He pushed the button for 8. That also pleased her. He may have temporarily forgotten where he lived, but he was on it now.
When the door closed, Don said, “What was Geneva saying to you the other day about trains?”
Willie thought back and then remembered. “Oh, she was remembering when she was a child. The Nazis kept her and other children in a warehouse before they put them on the train to Mittlebau-Dora.”
Don fidgeted with his shirt pocket full of pens. “But she seemed so afraid . . .”
“I don’t think you need to worry, Don. It is her past memory.”
His hands became stiff and still. “Not here?”
“Well, she fears it is happening again, but it is just memory.”
Don began walking back and forth in the space. Toward the door and then backing up as if very worried. “What trains? Which warehouse?”
“In Germany. Long ago. It’s all right.”
He glanced at her and calmed a little. “All right?”
She nodded.
The elevator arrived at the eighth floor. When the door opened, Don started to turn right and walk toward her apartment.
“Don, you are in room eight. That’s the other way and close to the end of the hall.”
“Oh. That’s right.”
“Got your key?”
He waved it in the air.
“Great. See you at dinner?”
“Umm. No. My nephew is taking me out to dinner.”
“Well, that will be very nice.” Willie wasn’t so sure about that. The nephew didn’t really seem all that patient with Don’s forgetfulness.
Willie entered her own apartment and lay all her music and her new mail down on the overflowing coffee table.
A knock on the door, stopped her from sitting at last.
She assumed it would be Glyn, but when she opened the door, there stood Geneva, holding out an envelope.
“Did you put this under my door?”
Willie looked at the envelope, and said, “Geneva, I don’t use that kind of envelope. I use number tens. They are business envelopes and not for invitations.”
“Threats!” Geneva said. “This is a threat that I should watch my step and stop talking.”
“My goodness. I don’t suppose it was signed.”
“Signed! Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“No, of course I don’t. Mine was a stupid question. But it has to be someone who lives here.”
Geneva snorted. “Haven’t you ever walked past the front desk when the receptionist was gone?”
“Yes. I guess I have.”
“So, someone who doesn’t live here, or...” Geneva stared into the apartment behind Willie. “Or someone who works here.”
“You should call the police and show this to them,” Willie said.
“Hmmph. I know you are friends with police.”
“Some have taken classes from me. And some wish they hadn’t had to do that.”
“I have other resources,” Geneva said, waving the envelope. “You tell that young man, Glyn, that he can’t get away with this.”
She turned and strode into her room, slamming the door.
Chapter Fourteen
Glyn took the roundabout way from the meeting with his teacher, Mrs. Price, picked up a new door lock and then headed to the downtown library where he researched newspaper stories on gang enforcement and drug selling in Portland and its nearby cities.
He’d begun to pick up on a pattern. Everyone talked about drugs being a youth gang thing, but he was pretty sure the gangs were working for older people. And the people who got arrested were the victims like Trace.
He called Leneld and DeAndre to check in on the search for Trace.
“While we’re looking,” he said. “We’ve another missing person...” and so he told them his worry about Rosaria Aguirre.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” Leneld said, “but our priority is Trace. If she turns up, too, it’ll be a miracle, since they disappeared in such different ways.”
“I know,” Glyn said. “But more eyes bring more information.”
“By the way,” Leneld said. “What do you know about Danny’s black eye?”
“A black eye, too?”
“What do you mean, ‘too’?” Leneld asked.
So, Glyn explained about the skate park and tiny house incident.
DeAndre said, “Let’s not tell Dan about Rosaria. He talks without thinking.”
They agreed.
By the time he got on the bus back to the east side of town, he was bound to be late for kitchen detail and Grandma Willie would tan his hide.
She’d promoted his ‘good name’ and gotten him the marvy job of peeling potatoes and delivering meals to all the old folks. Despite his initial attitude about the job, he knew it was a good deal, and he didn’t want to disappoint her. He didn’t want to disappoint Violeta either.
He banged on the kitchen door. Pretty soon, the head chef, Judson, yanked it open.
“You’re late. Violeta is setting up for you.”
“Sorry, I’ll get in there and help her.”
Judson put up a hand. “Wash and comb first. Otherwise, everyone will know you just ran in here.”
Glyn nodded. He hadn’t thought Judson was alert to appearances and how people read them. Judson himself had on an apron covered in blood and swung a meat cleaver as if it were a baton.
“Thank you, sir.” Glyn marched to the sink in the nearest bathroom, washed his face and let water settle his hair, mostly. He practically ran out to help Violeta. Didn’t want her worrying about him.
She glanced up from putting around silverware. “Your grandma is talking to Liza’s parents this afternoon.”
He grabbed a stack of placemats, silverware and napkins, and followed her around the table. They had thirty tables of six place settings each and she had already finished about eighteen of them by herself.
“I’m sorry to be late,” he said.
“Did you get the band’s homework?”
“Yes, and some information about recent drug trafficking.”
“Oh!”
He wished he’d put that more smoothly. “I mean, about Trace and the drugs he uses. Not Rosaria.”
She leaned hard on a chair nearby. “But what if...”
He wanted to touch her shoulder, help her stop fearing, but touching wasn’t good here, and he worried about the same thing that she feared. What if?
“Violeta, anybody who tries that on her, we’ll get her back and get the drugs out of her.”
He hoped he wasn’t just whistling Kumbaya. He hoped that working together on Trace and Rosaria, they might really find and rescue them both.
Two disappearances might not be related. Even three with Liza Cramer. But there might be a benefit in having all of them looking together. He sure hoped that would be true.
People from Holly Hill began lining up outside the dining room door.
“Wow,” he said. “You’d think we had tickets to Blazers basketball or Thorns soccer in here, the way they line up.”
Violeta glanced up. “Dinner is the best action of the day. You get to see who sits with whom. You get to see the visitors and comment on how cute the grandchildren are...”
“You get to grouse about the help and the food,” Glyn added.
“Some do that. Most don’t look for things to complain about,
” Violetta said.
“Ah, here comes Grandma Willie,” she said.
Glyn glanced out the glass doors to see Grandma talking with Mr. Goforth and Leah Müller. He also noticed how quickly his grandma had become Violeta’s Grandma Willie. He liked that.
May she be Grandma Willie for Rosaria someday, he thought. And knew he would search anywhere for Rosaria, because she was important to Violeta.
Chapter Fifteen
Out in the waiting area, Leah Müller and Rolly Goforth descended on Willie. And sure enough, they wanted to talk about Geneva.
“The admin has called in the doctor. He’s going to test her now,” Goforth said. “All you have to do is tell that she accuses you of being the cook.”
“All I have to do?” Willie said. “And what happens to Geneva?”
Leah at least was a little bit more concerned with how things looked. She had the good taste to say, “Poor Geneva needs this visit to the hospital mental health unit. It will help her regain perspective.”
Willie asked, “What perspective should she have?”
“You know it’s not good for her to be afraid of everybody,” Leah said. “Very tiring.”
“Very tiring for you, at any rate,” Willie said.
Goforth said, “Come on, Wilhalmena, don’t tell me it’s not bad for you as well.”
“Rolly, do you have other reasons for worrying about your reputation? If not, then what harm can Geneva’s accusations have?”
Rolly backed up.
And to Willie’s amazement, so did Leah. What reputation did Leah worry about?
But Willie was more worried about Geneva. “What doctor?” she asked.
Rolly said, “I’ve got to get to work.”
Rolly work?
Leah said, “Wilhalmena, you’d best be careful. Geneva is getting dangerous. You’ve been yelled at. You should know.”
Willie softened her voice. “Leah, if you had fearful memories, you would also be mixing up old memories with new faces. I look like the cook and have a similar name. The mix up shouldn’t be a surprise.”
Leah shook her head. “I’m not going to put up with her craziness.”