Sorrow Road (30 page)

“Oh, it's not just the festivities! We're also having some booklets printed up. With the whole story.” Mary Alice's enthusiasm, Bell decided, was keeping her warm, in ways that even those fleece-lined earflaps could not manage. “The story of how three boys from Norbitt went out and sent that old Hitler straight to hell, which is where he came from in the first place, you ask me. We've been interviewing a lot of folks who have known Alvie Sherrill his whole life. Shame we can't include his two best friends. Woulda been really special.”

“How nice,” Bell said. Now she really did have to go. Thornapple Terrace was on her way home from Norbitt, and she planned to stop in. Bonita Layman had called that morning. New information, the director said. Might be relevant.

Mary Alice was still talking. “Of course, we won't bring up much about his daddy.”

Bell released the door handle. A few extra minutes in the cold wouldn't matter. “Why not?”

“Oh, everybody knows about
that
.” For the first time, Mary Alice seemed a little reluctant to go on.

“Remind me.”

“Well…” The woman looked around. The snow-packed street was deserted, but she wanted to make sure. “Nobody much talks about him anymore. But my mother told me all about it before she passed. See, Reverend Sherrill's father was the pastor here back in the 1930s. Until the scandal. It must've been hard for the family—that kind of disgrace.”

Gossip was still irresistible, Bell thought, even if it was eighty years old.

“What scandal?” she said.

After another furtive look around, Mary Alice plunged in. “Reverend Sherrill's father was the first Leonard Sherrill. Our pastor named his own son after the man. Anyway, way back in the day, the first Reverend Sherrill had an affair with a girl who'd come to him for counseling. She got pregnant. And this was the 1930s, of course, so it was
unforgivable
. That girl lost the baby, which was a terrible shame, but in the meantime, once word got out, the church board fired Leonard Sherrill. Based on what my mother told me, things got real hard for the family after that. Nobody would hire him to do anything around here. Reverend Sherrill's mother took in washing and ironing to keep food on the table for Alvie and his brothers and sisters.” She redid her grip on the stack of brochures, a thoughtful look on her round red face. “Sometimes I wonder if that's why our pastor became a minister himself. To make up for what his daddy did to this town. Preaching wasn't something that came natural to him, that's for sure. He had to work real hard, way I hear it.” She arched her eyebrows. “Wish that kid of his was half that ambitious. But Lenny—well, he's got his issues.”

“What do you mean?”

“Always in some kind of trouble. Reverend Sherrill's done everything he can do for his boy, but it's no use. Lots of folks say he's part of that gang that's been holding up gas stations. Oh, sure, you'll see Lenny at the church a lot—but that's just to make himself look good.”

Bell patted the pocket in which she had stowed the brochure. “Thanks for this,” she said.

“So you'll come to the parade?” Mary Alice's voice rose in hopefulness, like a kid standing up on tiptoes to reach the cookie jar.

Not a chance in hell,
Bell thought. Out loud, she said, “I'll check my calendar.”

*   *   *

Bonita Layman was waiting for her in the lobby. The director of Thornapple Terrace stood by the reception desk, her hands clasped in front of her brown wool skirt. She was frowning. The frown bit deep. It was the kind of frown that came not from simple displeasure, but from dark and troubling thoughts.

“Sorry I'm late,” Bell said. She was half-convinced that she might as well have those words tattooed on her forehead, and thus could just point to them everywhere she went. It would save time and breath.

Bonita nodded. “Do you mind coming this way?” She used a hand to indicate the secure corridor. “A member of the staff is waiting to talk to us in the lounge.” Before they set out, Bontia turned to the receptionist. “Dorothy, I need that light switch for the lamp fixed in my office. I've asked Travis about it multiple times. Where is he?”

“He was right here just a minute ago.” Dorothy looked around. She was perplexed. “I don't understand it. He was working on the front door—the weather stripping is coming loose. Then your visitor drove up, and he just disappeared.”

Bell was instantly on alert: Why would an employee vanish when she arrived? It wouldn't be hard to find out that she was a prosecutor; she assumed the staff had gone into Full Gossip Alert seconds after her earlier visit. What was this Travis person afraid of? Once she had finished with whatever Bonita Layman had to show her, she would check on the maintenance man's access to patient rooms. And his work schedule on the days when each of the three residents had died.

The lounge had just been cleaned. Bell did not need a forensic team to tell her so; the evidence was clear. It smelled of lemon Pledge. There were wide stroke marks on the carpet where the vacuum had made its symmetrical swipes. The four chairs had been pushed back under the round table, and the checkerboard was ready to go. The cushions on the sofa had been plumped up.

A short, small-boned woman stood next to the bookcase. The pink smock and white pants told Bell that she was an aide. She was exceedingly nervous; she could not keep her fingers out of the sausage curls that dangled across her shoulders, playing with them, flipping them back and forth. Those curls were a very unlikely shade of red. The Clairol box, Bell speculated, probably called it something like “Come-Hither Crimson” or “Dusky Rose Sunset over Sausalito.” She remembered the less charitable name by which she and a friend would refer to that brassy color back in high school, when they'd spot it on store clerks who were plainly trying to hide gray hair: Redneck Red.

“Grace Ann,” Bonita said. “Let's sit down.” She nodded toward the table.

The woman looked terrified, but she complied. She stayed on the forward edge of the chair, back straight, the living embodiment of discomfort. Her hands were flat on the tabletop in front of her, as if maybe Bell would want to check her for weapons.

Bonita had pushed the checkerboard to one side. “Bell, this is Grace Ann Rogers. She's been working here about a year now. Grace Ann, this is Belfa Elkins. She's the prosecutor over in Raythune County.”

“Prosecutor.” Grace Ann breathed the word as much as said it.

Bonita went on. “I want you to tell Mrs. Elkins here what you told me this morning. When I came to you with what I'd found out. I checked the assignment logs, right? And I discovered that Marcy Coates was not originally scheduled to be working with Harmon Strayer on the day he died—isn't that correct?”

Grace Ann nodded. She looked so miserable, so totally distraught, that Bell wondered if she was going to faint or throw up.

“Yeah,” the aide muttered.

“So as it turned out,” Bonita went on, “Marcy Coates was the last person to see Harmon Strayer alive. Not you. Why did you switch jobs with Marcy that day?”

Head down, Grace Ann delivered her answer to the tabletop. Bell could not make out what she mumbled.

“What?” Bonita said sharply. “You need to speak up, Grace Ann.”

The aide reluctantly raised her face, and Bell saw a multi-pack of emotions flitting across it: fear, confusion, doubt, dread. Grace Ann was much older than Bell had first taken her for. She had done all the things a woman could do to camouflage her age—all the things, that is, that a poor woman could do. A facelift was not an option. Instead she had dyed her hair and slathered herself with makeup, from sparkly blue eye shadow to mascara so black and so thick that it looked as if plump spiders were clinging to her eyelids.

“She asked me to,” Grace Ann said.

“Did she say why?” Bell asked.

Grace Ann shook her head. “And it didn't make sense. One room's the same as another, really. Once the patients move in here, they kinda blend. Don't have no real personality no more. Just need. Just the things they need, all the time. And they all pretty much need the same things, you know? Sad to say, but it's true.” She took a breath. “We come in and we get our assignments for the day—which rooms we'll be taking care of. Nothing much to pick and choose over. Oh, there's a few folks around here that you'd rather steer clear of, if you can—Sammy Landacre is one, because he'll cuss you out as soon as look at you, and Mavis Henderson is no picnic, lemme tell you—but mostly it don't matter. That's why I couldn't figure what had gotten into Marcy.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was real agitated that morning. She was standing by the bulletin board with the room assignments, and the minute I got there, she was after me. Asking me to switch with her. She wanted Mr. Strayer's room. She wanted it bad.” Grace Ann's head flipped back down, as if she feared the tabletop had missed her. Then she looked up again. “I was real sorry when I heard that Mr. Strayer had died that day. He was a nice man. And then when it come out that Marcy'd been killed—well, this has been a terrible time, tell you that.”

Bell looked her squarely in the eye. “You're sure that Marcy never mentioned why she wanted to work in Harmon Strayer's room that day? Not even a small remark in passing? A hint?”

“I'm sure.” Grace Ann's voice was emphatic. “But I still traded with her. Because you didn't say no to Marcy. Not when she asked like that.”

“She threatened you?” Bell asked. “Is that what you mean?”

“
Threatened
me? No, no, no.” Grace Ann was aghast. “You gotta understand. Marcy was a real good lady. The best. She really cared about the people here. She hated to see them suffer. Said so all the time. She'd make them as comfortable as she could, even if she was off the clock. Pushed herself. And Lordy—she had a hard life at home, too. Only family she had left was that good-for-nothing granddaughter of hers, who was always coming around begging her for money. More and more and more. So what I meant was—you didn't say no to her because if there was anything you could do to bring a little happiness to Marcy, you did it.”

As soon as Grace Ann left the lounge, Bonita turned to Bell. Her face was grave. “I should have listened to Darlene,” she said. “She
told
me there was something going on with her father's death. But I put her off. I thought she was being emotional. Letting her grief get the best of her.” She pressed the table with her fist. “I just—I just didn't want anyone telling me how to do my damned job, you know?”

“Yeah. I do.” Bell understood that motive very well. It came from stubbornness, and it came from pride. But in Bonita's case, she thought, it also came from talent and ambition, and from having been overlooked a lot of times in the world, when you know you're qualified and you're not given a chance to prove it. And so when you
do
get that chance, you cannot admit to doubt.

“It's hard enough trying to get some respect when you're younger than people expect you to be, running a place like this,” Bonita declared. “And then when you add black and female…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. When she opened them again, she'd recovered her poise. “I've always felt I have a lot to prove in this job. Muth County, West Virginia, is not exactly diverse.”

“Grant you that.”

“You should have seen what happened when I tried to check into a motel last year. I hadn't closed on my house yet. So I walk up to the reception desk in the lobby, with my credit card out and my ID ready—and the woman behind the desk says, ‘We don't need any more maids right now. But you're welcome to fill out an application in case we have an opening.'”

Bell shuddered. “I don't know how you kept calm.”

“No percentage in getting upset. I just politely told her that, no, I wanted a room.” Bonita shrugged. She shifted back into professional mode. “Okay,” she said. “So what do you think's going on around here?”

“No idea. But I need to be clear—it might be nothing, after all. Marcy Coates could have had any number of reasons—perfectly innocent reasons—for wanting to switch assignments with Grace Ann. And Harmon Strayer's death was most likely the result of age and ill health and Alzheimer's. But I'll make some inquires at the coroner's office. And I'd like to chat with other employees, too, at some point. See if they noticed Marcy Coates behaving out of character. Would you mind giving me a staff roster? And scheduling some time for each employee to meet with me?”

“Funny. That's the same thing I was doing when I found out about the assignment switch—putting together a roster and some interview times.”

“Really.”

“Yes. For the librarian at the Raythune County Public Library. She called me last week. Wants to send someone over to interview our older staff members. For an oral history thing.” Bonita paused. “Hold on. I just remembered the interviewer's name she gave me—Carla Elkins. Any relation?”

“As a matter of fact,” Bell said, “she's my daughter.” There was pride in her voice. There would always be pride in her voice when she talked about Carla.

*   *   *

Carla Jean Elkins stepped down from a Greyhound bus in the middle of Blythesburg, West Virginia. It was as close as she could get to Acker's Gap, because the bus station in Acker's Gap had closed down five years ago. No other business had taken over that location—the town had run out of reckless fools—so now it was a crumbling building with a gouged-up linoleum floor, cracked windows, and the slithery ghosts of long-ago travelers whisking to and fro.

The station in Blythesburg was even less impressive, although it was still open. It was just a kiosk and a couple of benches on a concrete pad. But it was the only place for many miles to board and disembark, so no one was likely to complain about the lack of deluxe accommodations.