Deadly Descent (15 page)

Chapter Thirty

Once home, I called Josie to tell her about the latest letter. “Are you there?” I asked, after a good sixty seconds of silence on the line.

“Just barely,” she said. “I don’t like the sound of this. Can you send me copies of all those letters?”

“Sure. You don’t think it’s someone who’s trying to push my buttons like Sam thought? Or Sam hoped.”

“Not any more. If it’s someone living right there in your own county, you’re dealing with a person who is very dangerous. Perhaps someone who has killed twice.”

“And smart enough to know how to arrange for letters to be mailed from different towns.”

“Okay, here’s what I think, or suspect. Pick your word.”

“Yeah, I know, and all your words are going to be qualified with buts and maybes.”

“You bet. I’m
not
a profiler. This is
not
my field. I am
not
a forensic psychologist and I don’t want to be one. Ain’t gonna be one either, despite your attempts to make me one. I never should have agreed to be a consultant for your little piss-ant county, but you
are
my sister, and I would like to keep you around a little while longer. I think.”

I smiled.

“My gut feeling here is your correspondent is not a newcomer, is middle-aged, and has lived in the county a long time. Possibly single or a widower.”

“Widower? You think it’s a male.”

“Funny I would have said that. In the beginning, I was thinking female.”

“Why have you changed your mind, Josie?”

“I haven’t.” She laughed. “It was a slip of the tongue.”

“Oh, right.”

“They do happen, you know.”

“That’s not what you’ve always said before.”

“Let’s start by eliminating newcomers. Check out strangers, then see if you can gather some gossip for me.”

“Gossip is this town’s specialty.”

“I want to know if someone is disintegrating. If this person holds a job and is in the state I think he or she is in, there would be signs at work. Definite signs of change. They would be noticeable to co-workers. See what you can find out and get back to me.”

***

A week later, I took Judy’s box over to Max St. John. I would visit a while, then let him know about the treasures in his attic. Considering his state before the funeral, I had expected to be let in by a home health person, but that’s not what happened.

It took forever for him to answer my ring and longer still for him to recognize me.

I took in his old chino pants. They were food stained and needed washing. He smelled. I wondered if he had had a bath since the funeral. Why hadn’t Inez arranged for care? His going to the hardware store every day had been a sham even before Zelda’s death. He wasn’t thinking, wasn’t competing. Walmarted into obscurity.

I didn’t give him a chance to turn me away. “I’ll bet I caught you at suppertime. Don’t let me interrupt. In fact, I’ll go right on back to the kitchen with you while you finish. I just came over to bring Judy’s things and see how you’re doing.” Wanting to see what he called supper nowadays, I brushed right past him.

The odor nearly knocked me over. Food from the funeral set on the counter. Meat reeked, cakes and pies were dotted with green fur. Milk clotted in at least seven glasses. Dirty plates ringed the table as though Max had just drug out food at random and eaten his next meal without washing a thing or putting food away again.

Shamed, he stood before me.

“I’ve kind of let things go, I guess.”

I closed my eyes, turned away for an instant, not wanting him to see my tears. I composed myself, faced him.

“It’s understandable.” I hoped my voice sounded gentle. I couldn’t bear to have him think I was scolding. Not after all he had been through. “It’s so very understandable, Max.”

I moved toward him and held him. He wept silently, shoulders shaking. Wept as though he couldn’t make it through another day. I rubbed his back. “It’s understandable, but wrong. I’m not going to let you live this way. You need help. You know that, Max.”

“I don’t care. I just don’t care.”

“If I were in your place, I’m not sure I would either. But you must try. You owe it to Judy, and I owe it to Judy. I’m going to call the hospital and arrange for you to go into respite care. While you’re there, I’ll find someone to come in and clean things up. Then we can talk about your coming back. If you want to.”

“I just don’t care.”

“Haven’t any of the Hadleys been here? Looking in on you? Seeing if you need anything?”

Angry again, I realized Fiona and Edgar Hadley were still able to make my blood boil. Why in the name of decency hadn’t they offered to help this poor old soul?

“Fiona’s been here. Said she wanted to go through stuff in the attic.”

I closed my eyes and prayed.

Please God, please God, please God.

“She said there was Rubidoux things that belonged to her family. I said she could damn sure have it. Lot of junk. Wasn’t doing nobody no good. Not rightfully mine, anyway.”

I started to protest, then stopped. Under Kansas law, he inherited all of Zelda’s goods. He could give his possessions to whomever he chose. If he had specifically given Fiona permission to take what she wanted, it was a done deal.

Please God, please God, please God.

“Sit down for a minute, Max. I want to check something in the attic myself.”

I eased him onto a chair, walked out of the room, then flew up the stairs. I looked around, lowered my head into my cupped hands, and rocked back and forth in anguish.

Stripped. All of it. Stripped bare. Not a trace of the priceless old comics, the trunks, the vintage clothing, the art deco jewelry, the picture frames, the books. Or the journals. Those priceless old journals. Nothing. I slid down the wall to the floor and muffled howls of pure rage.

When I could compose myself, I walked back downstairs. There was no point in making this poor old man any more miserable then he already was. He had never known the worth of the items in the attic, and it would not do him a bit of good to know it now.

“Do you know what Fiona did with everything?”

“Think she hauled some of it off to the dump, kept some of it. Burned some it.” His eyes welled with tears. “Don’t care. Didn’t want to see any of it anymore. She would have gotten it all in the end anyway. Might as well all be burnt now as later.”

My soul cried to heaven with outrage, but my face managed a small smile and my hand reached for his, gave it a squeeze.

Ninety thousand dollars hauled off. At least. Enough to provide decent care for several years. I grieved over the money and what it would have meant to Max, and I grieved over the lost history. Would Fiona recognize the worth of those priceless journals, or were they now ashes in the Carlton County landfill?

I took Max back into town with me. I did not have to persuade Dr. Golbert to admit him into the hospital. One look, and he knew Max was in the process of slow dehydration. Then I called Inez Wilson to bawl her out. As county health nurse, she should have arranged for care. Her voice hot with self-righteous protests, Inez argued that Fiona had called and assured her that Max was doing just fine. Family was family. The Hadleys would look after him.

***

I pulled into our lane when a late breaking news announcement came over the radio.

Finally. Even thought it was common knowledge Judy had not committed suicide, this would officially put a stop to Fiona’s campaign to convince people I’d overstressed a vulnerable young woman. Although it was cold comfort having folks know she had been murdered instead, at least Max was now safely settled in respite care where he would be protected from the press.

Chapter Thirty-One

I spent the next morning at the historical society working both jobs to locate my elusive letter writer. Shamed over his dismissal of the letters to begin with, Sam had grudgingly acknowledged that the positions sometimes intersected, and I was in the best position to know when that was an advantage. In return, I’d sweetly agreed to call him to decide when there was a “situation” looming.

Margaret looked tired when she came in. The murder had taken a toll on everyone. We didn’t feel safe in our own county now.

“It wouldn’t be a sin, if you took a day off, you know,” I said.

“That applies to you too, Lottie.”

“I need to keep my mind occupied.”

She sighed. “Me too.” She placed her purse behind her desk.

I stopped and stretched. “Since we’re here by ourselves, perhaps you can fill me in on some things I’d like to know.”

“Like what?” She tensed and curled her fists into tight balls.

“Oh, relax. This isn’t a sheriffing question. I just want to know more about The Ladies. How do you see them? Or did see them, I guess. In particular, do you know of anything strange going on with Fiona about the time Zelda was pregnant. Some incident? Or event?”

“Funny you should mention it. I’d almost forgotten.” She sat with her hands clasped on top of the desk. “Fiona was fit to be tied. Don’t know what got into her. I’ve seen other women turn weepy like that when they had a lot of miscarriages or were infertile, but she already had Brian.”

“Still, if she’d wanted a large family, and it wasn’t going to happen that might have done it,” I said. “Some infertile women are very envious of another’s pregnancy. Or it could be simply that Zelda was the center of attention for a change.”

“Phooey. Don’t you believe it. They were both impossible to deal with. Fiona may be a steamroller, but Zelda had her ways of getting even from the time they were little. When she wanted attention, she got it. She was just sneakier than Fiona.”

The cords in Margaret’s neck tightened. Her voice tensed with disapproval. Surprised by her animosity, I looked away.

But there was no denying the anguish in Zelda’s diary. What a way for two sisters to carry on. I thought about Josie and me. Despite our little verbal squabbles, she was like a second heartbeat. If anything ever happened to her, I would probably die too.

Margaret started filing and I turned my attention back to locating my letter writer. A quick call to the City Office eliminated newcomers. No new utility hook-ups for the past three months. No new subscriptions to our paper, either. No strangers reading the Gateway Gazette in the library.

I listed all the businesses and institutions in the county. Teachers would notice if someone was out-of-whack in the school system, unless my letter writer was a maintenance or lunchroom worker not under daily scrutiny.

The courthouse grapevine is instantaneous. I would have heard about one of us weeks ago. Bank personnel would nail one another in no time. A dysfunctional person would have a hard time keeping financial transactions straight.

After I closed my office that evening, I drove to Sunny Rest Manor. Even given the circulation problems of the elderly, I couldn’t imagine anyone being comfortable in the over-heated facility.

I peeked inside the admissions coordinator’s office. It was empty. Since the home has an open visitation policy, I went straight to the administrator’s office, unannounced.

Connie Simmons was staring gloomily at a stack of papers when I walked through the door.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Nope,” she said. “Wish you were. Can’t seem to find my start button.”

“Start? You should be looking for the off switch. It’s about time to head home.”

“Can’t,” she said flatly. “Surveyors coming this month. Sometimes I think the government invents all this red tape to see if they can break us. And if that isn’t bad enough, we’ve got a flu bug starting. Not too many of the residents down yet, but it’s disastrous when they all get sick.”

I shuddered, imagining the laundry, the stench, the problems with the staff. I gave a weak wave of my hand and tried to smile.

“Have you replaced that rogue aide yet?”

“Sort of,” she said grimly. “I have a body on duty here, but she’s young and inexperienced and thinks she’s too good for the job. She may be right. I don’t know. Not many folks want to change old folks’ diapers.” She laughed at the pleading look on my face.

“Sorry, Connie. I have the world’s weakest stomach, but I’m getting better. I think. I managed to get through Judy’s murder and do what had to be done without totally disgracing myself.”

She gave me a quick sharp glance of sympathy and had the good sense to change the subject.

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s a business call, actually.”

“Sheriff or historical?”

“You know, I’m not sure anymore. The two jobs are starting to overlap. Is anyone on your staff acting funny? Not like herself?”

“May I ask why you would want to know this?”

“No,” I said flatly, “you really can’t.”

“Well, that answers my first question. It’s obviously law enforcement. Not historical.” She reached inside her desk for the roster of employees, riffled the stack of papers, picked up a pen and absently began thumping it against the top of the desk as she tracked down the list with her fingers.

“We have a high percentage of young, certified nurse’s aides. CNA’s, they’re called. Some boys, but mostly teenage girls who are earning money for college working after school and on weekends. We’re very, very lucky in that respect. The residents adore them. There’s raging hormones and intrigues and the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing. You know, prom dresses and who’s breaking up with whom and whose parents are the most ghastly. But all of them are normal crazy. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Any new hires?”

“One older woman. Rock solid. I’ve known her all my life.”

“The rest?”

She scanned the list again. “Two of the women are widows; we have five divorced or single mothers just trying to make ends meet. The rest are married women. Only three male CNA’s. All these people are fine. Just fine.”

“Nurses? Any change there?”

“None.”

“You’ll watch?”

“Of course. How can I not?” she asked dryly. “This kind of question does have a tendency to rivet one’s attention on the staff.”

“I know, and I’m not out to make anyone miserable.”

She looked at her paperwork, glanced at her watch and rose from her chair.

I scrambled to my feet. “It’s late, and I haven’t been very considerate of your time. Thanks, Connie. I think I’ll look in on Herman Swenson again just to say hello, then I’ll be on my way.”

“Okay. Minerva is probably ready to leave by now.”

“Minerva?”

“She’s a reader here. Along with Margaret Atchison and Inez Wilson. We have several residents who love to be read to. The three women all come twice a week on different evenings.”

I could imagine Minerva volunteering for this one-on-one activity. It would be just like her to make this invisible contribution to the community. Margaret Atchison, with her strong sense of responsibility,
would
find some way to work this in. But Inez Wilson? The queen of commotion? I couldn’t see her sitting still long enough to read a book to anyone.

Minerva was just coming out of Herman’s room. She stopped in the doorway, leaned against the jamb. She trembled. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her face.

“Minerva? Are you sick?”

She tried to smile. Her color was ghastly. “Dizzy,” she said weakly.

“Connie was just telling me about this flu bug.”

“I never get it,” she said. “Never.”

“Well, you seem to be getting it now. You can’t drive home in this shape. Do you need to go to the doctor?”

“No,” she said. “The clinic is closed for the day, and I would have to see him at the emergency room. I’m not that sick.”

“You’re chilling, Minerva. Shaking all over. You need to see someone.”

She clamped her teeth together and shook her head.

“You shouldn’t drive,” I persisted.

“All right, I would appreciate a ride home then. If it’s not too much trouble.” She said this stiffly, in the manner of a person who hates to ask for help in any way, shape, or form.

“Are you kidding? That’s what friends are for. Besides, I owe you, Lady. Think of all the information you’ve dug up for me.”

“Just doing my job.”

I was just the right height to serve as a crutch. My shoulders were level with her armpit. She steadied herself and I helped her outside.

“Is your pickup a stick shift?”

She nodded.

“Damn. I’ll have to take you home in my Tahoe.”

“I’ll need my pickup to drive to work tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so.” I laughed. Then feeling her tense, I added, “Keith is in town at an Elk’s meeting tonight. I’ll come back here and wait until it’s over. Your stick shift certainly won’t bother him. He can bring your pickup by on his way home, and I’ll follow in his Suburban.”

“Too much trouble,” she mumbled. “Far too much trouble.”

“It’s not. Keith’s coming to town tomorrow, anyway. And he can bring me back to my Tahoe.”

She steadied herself against the front fender. I opened the door and eased her inside. I walked over to her pickup and got her briefcase. The cab was spotless and shiny. She had even Armoralled her floor mats.

In the bed of her Toyota was standard Western Kansas survival equipment that I, too, carried. Blizzards come on with nightmare suddenness. Minerva, however, won the preparedness prize. There was a sleeping bag neatly enclosed in a nylon sack, a camouflage jacket, a Coleman heater, a shovel, a pick, and flares.

I walked back to my Tahoe and held up the briefcase. “Need anything else?”

She shook her head. I dropped her keys into my purse. She sat totally motionless, her fingers pressed against her temples, speechless, clearly miserable.

She lived five miles out of town in a neat little double wide trailer. Once there, I braced her again, helped her up the steps and reached for the doorknob. The house was locked. I fumbled through the ring for the right key.

Her living room was as impersonal as a mobile home showroom. The walls were paneled with cheap light oak. A small self-assembled desk held a computer with a vinyl cover. There wasn’t a paper out of place. She pointed toward the couch.

“No way. You’re going straight to bed, where you can sleep comfortably. You might think you’re going to be just fine, but I’ll call tomorrow morning to make sure you have plenty of groceries.”

“No need,” she said. “I’ll be at work.”

“Wanna bet? This is going to put you under for at least three days. Count on it.”

“It can’t. I’ve got too much work.”

“It will. You’d better call that lady who helps you during tax season and ask her to pitch in.”

She groaned.

“Where’re your pajamas? I’ll heat some soup before I leave.” I bustled around, taking over.

“My head,” she moaned.

“You probably should have gone straight to the hospital.”

“I’ll be fine by morning.”

In her bedroom an oblong mirror reflected a bookcase headboard with a good reading lamp and an assortment of books. I knew she would not appreciate me inspecting the titles. I turned back her crème chenille coverlet and fluffed her pillows.

One wall was covered with old pictures and yellowed embroidered samplers. An intricate crocheted doily had been placed on a square tall table, beside a small trunk.

I did not comment on her memorabilia. Others might think this was the real Minerva, but I knew better. Our real self usually
is
our mask, the face we present to outsiders. Hers was intensely private. If she had wanted me or anyone else to see all this, she would have had it on display in her living room or at her office in the courthouse.

She swayed as she bent toward her shoes. I quickly knelt, untied her laces for her, and eased her shoes off her feet.

“Do you need help undressing?”

“No.” She smiled weakly. “Nightgown on the hook in the bathroom.”

I got it, handed it to her, then reached for her over-tinted glasses, but she shook her head.

“I need them to read.”

“With your headache?”

“Habit. I don’t think I can sleep without reading a couple of pages. It settles me down.”

I laughed. “Me, too.” I said. “Bet we could have some grand discussions.”

“Besides, my head doesn’t ache, I’m just dizzy.”

I glanced at my watch. “Anything else I can get you before I fix a bite to eat?”

A tear rolled down her cheek from under her smoky lenses.

“Minerva, are you in pain? I’ve been calling this the flu without really knowing a thing. I really think you should see a doctor.”

“I’m so dizzy. I can’t stand not being right in my head.”

“What you can’t stand, dear, is the thought of not being totally competent and in control.”

She smiled. “If I’m not better by morning, I’ll call him. I promise.”

I went into her kitchen and boiled some water for instant soup, made toast, and carried the tray back into her bedroom.

She had propped herself up on pillows against the headboard. Tears trickled as she looked at the tray.

“You’ve been very kind to me, Lottie.”

“Nonsense. This hardly makes me Mother Theresa.”

“You don’t know. Thank you.”

“Anything else before I go back to the manor? Keith and I will have your pickup back here in a flash.”

“Nothing,” she said.

I turned and headed for the front door.

“Lottie,” she called suddenly.

I went back to the bedroom. “There’s something you should know.”

I waited.

“You have an enemy.”