Death Will Pay Your Debts

by Elizabeth Zelvin

  "If she won't accept help at home," Barbara said, "you'll have to put her in a nursing home. Her dementia can only get worse. Soon you won't be able to leave her alone safely. She could leave the gas on without a light. She could wander out into the street and forget how to get home. She could forget to eat."

  "Okay, okay," I said, "I get it. You don't have to scare me any more. She's like a bag of sticks already. There's nothing in the fridge but American cheese and Wonder Bread, and if I buy her anything else, she won't eat it."

  "Let me come out there with you next time," she said. "I can assess the situation and wash her hair at least."

  "Assess, huh? You're a good soul, Barbara. Do you still want to go to social work school?"

  "I do," she said, "but I can wait till the baby is in nursery school. Now that Jimmy has stopped fighting it, I feel as if I can relax and totally enjoy motherhood."

  "'Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today,'" I quoted. "Big Book, Page 417, or as the oldtimers say, Page 449."

  "Well, it is," she said. "You have to admit that the truth and wisdom factor in program sayings outweighs the corn and cliché factor. Let me come out to Long Island and wash your mother's hair. We can take the car, and I'll bring the shampoo."

  "I'll reimburse you for the shampoo," I said, "and if we drive, you have to let me pay for the gas. I don't want it to be an item in Jimmy's little book."

  "It's a good tool," she said. "When are you going to have your own little book?"

  "When I'm ready. We've reached closure on this conversation, so don't go and spoil it."

  In fact, I already had a little book and had started to write down everything I spent. But I wasn't ready to tell anyone I was doing it.

  To my surprise, my mother let Barbara wash her hair. I was relieved no mice crawled out of it when Barbara brushed it out for her. When she took out the old-fashioned bobby pins, of which my mother had thousands that she probably bought on sale in the 1950s, I could see how long it had gotten. With the white locks around her gaunt face, she looked like Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, the one with cobwebs on her wedding dress. It was weird to see Barbara in my mom's apartment, her cheerfulness bobbing around in the miasma of disappointment and bitterness in which my mother wrapped herself like a flashlight beam in a dark cellar.

  "What do you think?" I asked her afterward.

  "She can barely manage alone," she said. "Her hand shook so badly when she handed us our tea that the cups rattled in the saucers, and you had to rescue the water from boiling away. You have to find her some kind of assisted living."

  "I can't afford the kind of place you'd want to end up in yourself," I said, "and I'd feel like a heel putting her in the kind of place I can afford."

  "You'd be surprised," she said, "at some of the facilities that might take her if she signs over her Social Security and whatever other income she gets. That wouldn't bother you, would it?"

  "My dad left her enough to get by," I said, "and no, I'm not watching the minutes tick away, waiting to inherit. I'd still have to visit her, and I loathe the commute. It was annoying enough when we were going out to the Hamptons and could expect some fun at the end of the line. Sometimes I think Hell must be the LIRR, and the station at Jamaica where you always have to change trains is Purgatory, where you don't want to spend one minute more than you have to."

  "You don't have to place her around here," she said. "She doesn't have any friends in the community, does she?"

  "She moved out here because of the Church," I said, "but she's not interested in any of their activities. I always ask, and she says no. I don't think she made any real connections with anyone even when she first moved out here. She doesn't even go to Mass any more. I've offered to come out here on a Sunday morning and take her, but she says she doesn't like the priest."

  "What's wrong with him?" Barbara asked.

  "He's young, and he's Italian," I said. "Isn't that enough?"

  "So if she gives up the apartment," she said, "there's no real reason for her to stay here. Why don't you look into facilities in locations that are easier for you to get to? There are several near my hospital up in the Bronx. I'll give you a list."

  By the time I'd visited the third facility and researched a dozen more, I'd decided that, clean and sober or not, I'd better start hoarding pills in case the day ever arrived when my options boiled down to checking into one of these places myself or checking out for good. There were adult communities, mostly outside the city, where rich people who played golf, didn't like to cook, and didn't care about taking the grandchildren overnight could take it easy. There were various levels of assisted living to help people cope, which would have been fine if my mother had ever been able to cope in the first place. The pitch for these included well organized activities and opportunities to socialize. What good would that do Ma? She had lived most of her life, till my father died, in a city of eight million people and never managed to have a meaningful conversation with any of them.

  Then there were the nursing homes. The three I visited in person looked clean enough, and the lobbies were all spiffy, but when you got past that, they smelled of ammonia, cabbage, and despair. After the first time, I didn't introduce myself as the son of a prospective resident until after I'd dodged the guided tour and glossy brochures and ridden the lumbering elevators up and down, popping in to get a whiff of the real deal. There was always a small knot of women yattering and knitting as they watched daytime TV. My mom would not be one of those. I saw many more, both men and women, dozing in their wheelchairs, looking as if they'd been there for twenty years like Rip Van Winkle. The rest could be glimpsed in their beds, or, at best, sitting in chairs beside their beds, surrounded by pathetic remnants of their former lives: a couple of framed photographs, an afghan, a stuffed animal or china figurine.

  "Shoot me now, Jesus," I muttered as I fled past the receptionist's desk at the last place, hunched over as if I carried the whole weight of human mortality on my shoulders.

  I didn't realize I'd said it aloud until the receptionist's sharp, bright voice called out, "Sir? Can I help you?"

  I had been prepared each time, if accosted, to say I was visiting Mrs. Kelly. I figured there was always a Mrs. Kelly, a Mrs. Schwartz, and a Mrs. Rossi. But no one had asked, and I'd begun to feel as if I was invisible. Wrong. I couldn't even make my getaway, because old Mr. Jennings got his wheelchair stuck in the door and the receptionist had to come out from behind her desk and try to get him uncorked. While that was going on, another elderly gent with a walker slipped and fell. All these places would have looked better for a few carpets, but linoleum floors were easier to clean. The old guy wasn't moaning loud enough to have broken any bones, but it took two attendants to get him up from the floor and dusted off. Then those attendants had to rush off, because an alarm bell loud enough to wake the deaf went off: an elevator filled with residents had gotten stuck between floors. Quite a commotion. They left old Mr. Cantor-- at least the receptionist and attendants knew everybody by name-- on his pins but shakily clutching his walker and clearly scared to rev up and go again.

  The one I cared about was Mr. Jennings, because he was blocking the exit. They had just rocked and squealed the wheelchair loose when my escape was foiled again.

  "Bruce? What are you doing here?"

  "Cindy! What are you?"

  "Are you stalking me?" She looked adorable in a businesslike way, in a navy blazer and slacks, a pale blue silk blouse, and a hint of gold in her ears and around her neck.

  "Are you undercover?"

  "Just a sec." She pressed down on my arm in a "Stay!" gesture that I had no intention of disobeying and went back to the receptionist, who had hurried back to her post and was just slotting herself into place behind the desk. I heard her say, "You have my card. Please call me next time she has a good day."

  "So who's 'she'?" I asked as she came back toward me. She had her hair in short pigtails, which I hadn't seen since the Hamptons, the ends clamped wit
h sparkly barrettes instead of her usual rubber bands. I could see the tip of her incisor, which only showed when she was smiling or, as in this case, trying not to. "Your grandmother? Your kindergarten teacher? And is that a gun you've got under your jacket, or are you just glad to see me?"

  "Idiot," she said, wiggling surreptitiously to settle the shoulder holster closer to her breast. "I'm working."

  "Right this minute? It's lunchtime. Don't you get a break for lunch? Let me feed you. My treat."

  "You're in luck, boy," she said. "It so happens I'm on my way to McDonald's. You can come along if you want. But I'm working. You can't ask questions. And I'll pay for my own lunch."

  "Well! Isn't this romantic," I said, when we were seated at a window table, me with my Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese and Cindy with her Premium Caesar Salad with Grilled Chicken. Hers would have been a healthy lunch if she hadn't ordered fries with it. "Would you like to share my McCafé Latte? I got two straws."

  "No, thank you," she said, the errant cuspid peeking out at me as her lip curled. "And watch your fingers! If you wanted fries, you should have ordered your own."

  She emptied six packets of ketchup onto her fries to discourage me from stealing the rest. She knew I take my grease and salt straight up.

  "Was that a smile or a snarl?" I asked. "Okay, if I'm not allowed to ask questions, what are we going to talk about? And if you won't answer that one, have you heard the one about the Cretan who says, 'All Cretans are liars'?"

  She pushed back her chair and stood up.

  "Don't move," she said.

  "You aren't going to throttle me, are you?" I asked. "Oops, sorry, another question."

  "I'll be right back," she said. "Remember that I'm armed, and don't touch my fries."

  I took a quick bite of my burger and strolled behind her toward the counter. There's no point in tiptoeing in McDonald's. I saw her take out a photo and show it to the assorted crew behind the counter, who all stared at it and then shook their heads. She asked a couple of questions, still drawing a blank, from their shrugs and headshakes. I moved up till I stood behind her, close enough to hug her or simply be the next guy in line. She was already turning as she fumbled with her bag, so I caught a glimpse of the photo before she could tuck it away. We were practically chest to chest. She glared up at me.

  "You never give up, do you?"

  "No, ma'am. Neither do you. That's why you're going to be a great detective. That was Larry Kane, wasn't it? What made you think a burger jerk in the Bronx would recognize him?"

  "Stop stalking me. There's no such thing as a burger jerk."

  "Sure, there is. It's like a soda jerk, but with burgers. How can I be stalking you when we're in the middle of a lunch date? Date, as in together."

  "We are not on a date," she said. "Step aside. I have unfinished business with a salad."

  I let her pass and trotted after her. As soon as we were seated, I took a big bite of my burger and snitched a fry the ketchup had missed from her tray just to show I could. She picked up her fork, hefting it as if weighing the relative merits of spearing a piece of grilled chicken or stabbing my hand.

  "Eat your chicken," I advised. "It won't give you any lip. Hey, can I ask questions if I answer them myself? Sure, Bruce, I knew you'd find a way to beat the system. Why are we in McDonald's? That's obvious: to ask the McWorkers if they recognize Larry Kane. Why would you question witnesses about Larry Kane? I'd guess to check his alibi. What's special about this McDonald's? It's only three blocks from the nursing home. What were you doing in the nursing home? You said you were working. On what? We already know that one: Larry Kane's alibi. What does Larry Kane have to do with a nursing home? Wait a minute, wait a minute. Nursing home, little old ladies, mother. Aha! 'She' is old Mrs. Kane. No, old Mrs. Kahn. We met her at Larry's brother's when they were sitting shiva. You need her to confirm or deny that Larry was visiting Mom in the Bronx and, uh, hold on a sec, taking her out to lunch at McDonald's while someone was poisoning his wife in Starbucks in Manhattan."

  "You barged in asking questions when they were sitting shiva? Bruce, you are impossible."

  Cindy flicked a crouton off her salad and onto the tray.

  Note to self: if I ever make Cindy a Caesar salad, hold the croutons.

  "No, I'm not. I'm completely possible. Until you got this damn case, you thought so too. C'mon, Cindy, have a heart. You're killing me. I miss you. Do you miss me? I guess Larry gave his mother as his alibi. Did Mom confirm it?"

  "She couldn't confirm or deny it. She was having a bad day."

  She wouldn't admit that she missed me. To distract me, she had to talk to me about the case, which was arguably even better. It had worked so well the first time that I did it again.

  "Aw, c'mon, Cindy, don't you miss me even a little? I didn't realize she lived in a nursing home. Was Larry there that day at all?"

  "He signed in as a visitor that morning. The receptionist showed me the book. But she couldn't tell me how long he stayed. You could see yourself that the receptionist can't be watching every minute. When there's a crisis, she has to pitch in."

  "It looked like the burger jerks couldn't alibi him either."

  "McDonald's has a huge turnover in staff," she said. "These folks are all new."

  "So you want to go back and try again with Mrs. Kahn another time," I said. "Does she actually have good days? She seemed okay when I met her, but I wasn't trying to interrogate her."

  "I'm not sure. She might be able to answer simple questions, but I doubt she'll remember what happened on a particular day. She has dementia. She asked me why Larry would have a wife when he's just a little boy."

  The D word reminded me of my own troubles, but I tried to sound like my usual cocky self.

  "Ergo, no alibi," I said.

  "Bruce? What were you doing in the nursing home?"

  "My mother isn't doing very well," I admitted. "I might need to put her in a place like this, so I've been checking them out."

  She reached out and put her hand over mine.

  "I'm so sorry to hear it. It can't be easy for you."

  "Yeah, it sucks," I said. "It's not like she ever had a full bag of marbles, but now more of them are missing every time I see her. I don't know when she'll reach a point where it's dangerous for her to live alone, but it's bound to happen soon."

  She squeezed my hand. Her warm little paw felt comforting in mine. I was sorry when she drew it away.

  "I have to go," she said.

  "Wait," I said. "There's something I have to tell you. Don't freak out. I'm not pregnant. Joke. It's not about us. Tell me, do you know anything about the murder at the Met? The museum's on the East Side, so I figured it's not your case, but do you know the detectives who've got it?"

  "As it happens, the Met is west of Fifth Avenue, so it's part of an Upper West Side precinct, but it's not ours. What makes you think it's a murder?"

  "I'll tell you if you'll tell me if the cops think it is."

  "Bruce!"

  "Okay, I'll tell you no matter what," I said. "That's why I brought it up. But do they? Please, Cindy, trust me. I have a good reason for asking."

  She frowned and rubbed her finger back and forth across her lips as she thought about it.

  "Okay. It is a murder. That much will be released today, so it won't be a secret, but if I tell you any details, you can't go blabbing them to Barbara and Jimmy. Why do you want to know? It has nothing to do with the Schofield case."

  "Yeah, it does. Judith Orson was Sophia Schofield's sponsor. She knew something about Sophia that nobody else knew."

  "Then how do you know?" She was still frowning.

  "She told us."

  "If it was relevant to the murder, why didn't she come forward? And why the hell didn't you tell me?"

  "That's not fair, Cindy," I said. "One, you weren't speaking to me, and two, I'm telling you now. She didn't come forward because she was in relapse. She's sober again now, and she was going to report it. She promis
ed us she would. Instead, she's dead, and now you're telling me someone killed her. Does that sound like a coincidence to you?"

  "No, it doesn't. I can see how Sophia's sponsor could know a secret. What was it? Did she tell you?"

  "Sophia was having an affair."

  "Are you sure?" she asked. "We've considered that, but only as a hypothesis."

  "Judith thought she'd figured out who it was. I got the impression she wanted to make sure, and then she was coming to you."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Cindy

  "Let's get Larry Kane down to the station," Natali said. "We want to know if he knew his wife was having an affair, and while we're at it, let's see if he has a better alibi for Judith Orson's murder than he does for his wife's."

  Cindy had reported the connection between Judith and Sophia immediately, glad that she’d already told them she knew all about AA and could assure them it was plausible a woman's sponsor might know a secret she hadn't confided to anybody else. The detectives in another precinct who had caught the Orson case were not handing it over, but they were willing to collaborate and pool whatever evidence of a link turned up. They had been working on the premise that the killer had been some kind of insider at the Met, where Judith had been working after hours. Now, another scenario was emerging. Rohypnol had been found in Judith's body. The date rape drug would have disoriented her enough to account for her tumbling down the stairs. If she died, it became an opportunistic murder. If she survived, she would have had no memory of meeting the person who gave her the drug. It could have been anybody she'd met for coffee, a drink, or even dinner. The other detectives were circulating her photo throughout the neighborhood, hoping someone would recognize her and had seen her that evening with a companion.

  "The method is similar, but not the same," Cindy said. "Why not use cyanide again?"

  "The killer never meant for us to connect Sophia's death with Judith's," Natali said. "If not for your friend's information, we wouldn't have."

  "How could the killer know she'd go back into the museum and up the stairs?" Cindy asked.